Trust and Providence
by Rachel Smith Cobleigh
Summary: What if Mary had accepted Matthew's first proposal? Where might events have taken them if she'd trusted him with her secret from the start? An AU from episode 1x06. Warnings: graphic depictions of sex, frank depictions of religion, strong language
1. Chapter 1

TRUST AND PROVIDENCE

A _Downton Abbey_ story

by Rachel Smith Cobleigh

* * *

_1_

Matthew unstoppered the decanter and smiled. "We can drink to Sybil's safe return."

"Why not?" Mary replied as Matthew filled his glass, and then she realized that it was the only one available, not enough for both of them to toast. She moved to stand up. "I'll ring for a glass."

"Never mind that," he stopped her. "Here." He handed the filled glass to her and moved to pour wine into his water glass. She stared at it, frozen in shock at the breach of protocol for a moment, and then she smiled and leaned forward.

"You're not very fastidious about doing things properly, are you?"

He confirmed her observation with a soft snort. "Are you?"

"Less than you might think." They toasted each other and then took a sip from their respective glasses.

Mary looked at hers as she set it down, aware of the unusual intimacy of their situation. There was something enticing about the way he flouted custom in the house and she wondered what else he might be willing to set aside. She was not sure if he knew that they were ignoring propriety in being alone together behind closed doors, given that Papa had–probably unthinkingly–encouraged the situation.

_She_ knew better; she ought to let Matthew eat in peace, but she'd missed his company for months and she had only herself to blame. Stupid competition with Edith and over Sir Anthony, of all the ludicrous ideas!

Matthew lifted the cover off the plate of sandwiches and his stomach rumbled at the sight. It had been kind of Mary to think of him. He glanced at her, wondering what she was thinking.

"Are you at all political?" he asked. Sybil's proclivities were well-known; Mary's, on the other hand, were, typically, kept close to the vest.

"Yes," she answered, selecting a strawberry and toying with it. "But with a hung Parliament, it's hard to get excited about a by-election. You know nothing will change, whoever gets in."

Matthew smiled in acknowledgement. Trust Mary to cut straight to the heart of the matter without being distracted by idealism or hope. Her calm clarity of thought was refreshing after all the heightened irrationality at the rally.

"It's hard not to hope for change, nevertheless," he said, picking up a sandwich. "Women's suffrage is long overdue."

"You're a suffragist?" she asked, amused. "You don't strike me as a radical."

He chewed and swallowed. "Women getting the vote isn't radical; it's just right."

"Defender of the downtrodden," she observed with a smile, and popped the strawberry into her mouth. He caught himself staring her lips and he forced his gaze down to the sandwich tray instead.

He smirked, pushing aside his self-consciousness. "If the title fits…"

Mary ducked her head with a smile. They ate in silence for a short while, Matthew wondering what to say next and Mary imagining the scene at the rally. The idea of him knocking a man down intrigued her: she couldn't quite resolve it with his gentle manner.

"Thank you for coming to Sybil's rescue," she said, catching him with his glass in mid-air as he realised that he'd been staring at a tendril of dark hair that curled at the nape of her neck. "You were very brave: she told me you knocked a man down."

He wrenched his mind back to the day's events and mentally kicked himself for being distracted by her. She wasn't interested in him in that way, he reminded himself; acting like a besotted fool wouldn't recommend him in the slightest. The least he could do was to give her the courtesy of rational conversation. He smiled tightly. He couldn't deny that he felt proud to have defended her sister, but it was unfortunate that the man he'd hit had also knocked Sybil down as he fell. Matthew didn't feel like a hero.

"I hope I did my duty," he said, covering his discomfort with a sip from his glass.

"Are you a creature of duty?"

He paused at the oddity of the question: the conversation had taken a turn, but he wasn't sure of its direction. He set down his glass.

"Not entirely," he said with a frown. Where was she going with this? Curiosity and foreboding mixed together.

Mary's expression shifted subtly. "When you laugh with me, or flirt with me–" his whole being tightened at her delicate pause, "–is that a duty? Are you conforming to the fitness of things, doing what's expected?"

He stared at her. Had he just heard her correctly? She had never named _them_ before, had never been so bold with him. They had only just begun to mend their relationship after months of tense standoff due to her cruel game with the hapless Sir Anthony. Equal parts thrill and frustration tightened within Matthew. He narrowed his eyes, looking for the trap that surely awaited him. Engaging in verbal swordplay with Mary was an arousing and dangerous sport. He settled for ending this game before he was wounded again.

"Don't play with me," he said. "I don't deserve it. Not from you."

She looked away from him, conceding the point. He picked up his glass to take another sip of wine before he ate one more sandwich, realising that it would probably be best if he ended this meal as quickly as possible. Before the glass had even reached his lips, however, Mary had taken a different tack.

"You must be careful not to break Sybil's heart. I think she has a crush on you."

He set down his glass. He'd never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. Sybil no more had a crush on him than Mary did. This was no mere defense of her sister: Mary was still playing with him. Very well. If she wanted to play, then he would call her game for what it was: a meaningless flirtation.

"That's something no one could accuse you of," he said.

She looked down quickly, suddenly toying with her necklace in a way that struck him as uncharacteristically nervous. "Oh, I don't know," she said in a low tone. Her eyes flickered back up to his.

He paused as his heart skipped a beat and then he hardened in disbelief. He would not fall for this again.

"I assume you speak in a spirit of mockery," he accused, but he couldn't prevent the note of uncertainty that entered his voice.

"You should have more faith," she said, her eyes beckoning to him.

Why did she persist in this reinvention of the truth? He leaned forward in challenge.

"Shall I remind you of some of the choicest remarks you made about me when I arrived here?" he asked. She broke from his gaze, the fingers that toyed with her necklace growing more agitated, but he was not finished. "Because they live in my memory as fresh as the day they were spoken."

_You wounded me,_ he willed her to understand. _This is not a game._

"Oh Matthew, what am I always telling you?" She met his eyes undaunted, a warmth even sparkling in her own. Her fingers stilled. "You must pay no attention to the things I say."

Time held for a long moment as he stared at her, tasting spice on his tongue–no, _wanting_ to taste her spice on his tongue. His eyes flickered helplessly down to her lips, then back up to her eyes in mute question. Was she truly saying what he thought she was?

_Stop listening to my words and listen to my heart instead._

_I want you._

Oh God.

He moved; she moved, and their mouths met in mutual hunger. He felt a rush of sensation, his lips and tongue flooding him with familiar and foreign tastes and soft textures that made the insides of his mouth tingle and narrowed his focus almost unbearably. This was no chaste first kiss as he had once imagined it would be, but a heady, equally hungry exploration. She matched him press for press, the stroke of her tongue against his shocking him as she met him without hesitation. He challenged her, tasted her; she ran along his bottom lip and surprised him with the acute sensitivity at the corner of his mouth. His awareness widened to take in the way her fingers curled into the hair behind his ear, making his scalp prickle pleasantly under her touch. Her thumb bumped against his earlobe as her fingers drifted down his neck, raising gooseflesh there that ran down his back, tingling. The fingers of her other hand clutched his forearm just below where his elbow still rested on the table…and his other hand cupped her waist. Her _waist_. Her body was warm under the thin, soft fabric of her dress and his mind spun wildly at the prospect. His trousers felt uncomfortably tight, his clothes suddenly too warm against his skin. He was filled with the mad urge to remove them, which he suppressed with some shock at himself, then amusement. She wanted him as much as he wanted her! And in a sudden rush of awareness, he knew what he wanted with absolute certainty.

Mary's body hummed and her heart hammered in her chest, every flick of his tongue and press of his lips making her head spin. He kissed like he dueled: with quick responses that were at once gentle and arousing. His skin smelled warm and clean and uniquely _him_, and the slight rasp at the edges of his lips unexpectedly reminded her of his masculinity. Heat coiled deep within her at the awareness and she felt a sudden fluttering squeeze there that took her entirely by surprise. She nearly broke the kiss with a gasp, but she stilled her lips and held them against his at the last moment, hoping that he hadn't noticed her falter. She engaged him all the more to compensate, hungry to repeat the sensation and eager to match his ardor, for she was certain he could not feel more than she did in this moment and she wanted him to know it, to know that her blossoming joy was due entirely to him. Dear God, they were kissing! A slight sting of the scent of his sweat swept into her nostrils and she wanted to press herself closer to him, to breathe in his skin with an open mouth. Her head spun. It had never for one instant felt like this with Kemal–

Hot, sick guilt washed over her and she pulled away from lips that she ached for immediately.

_Kemal._

She knew in an instant, in a rush of a hundred thoughts all meeting in one, terrible truth, that she did not deserve Matthew. He was too good for her. He was kind and clever, without pretence or guile–so unlike herself. Against all reason and potentially to his own detriment, he had investigated how to break the entail; he had thoroughly explained it to Granny and to herself; and most notably, he had done so in a gentle voice, his expression pained. When she had cried out in anger and frustration at being passed over and seen as a source of disappointment for the whole of her life, he had told her that she mattered a great deal. She _mattered_ to him; he saw _her_; he understood; he ached with regret that he should find himself standing in her rightful place: not just in terms of the inheritance, but also in terms of her father's respect and regard.

That pain had begun at the cusp of her womanhood when her whole dreadful predicament had been coldly explained to her: Mary, you will not inherit Downton unless you marry your cousin Patrick, so you must marry your cousin Patrick. There are to be no suitors, no thought of love, merely expedience; your worth is of so little value that you are only a means to an heir for Patrick. You must wait in the shadows and practice the arts of society and beauty to woo him, hidden voiceless until the day your father and your intended beckon you out and you are transferred from one man to the other like a pretty possession. Your thoughts, your feelings, your dreams, your self, are of no interest in this transaction. This must be done to preserve the family, the future of the estate, the title, the role. You will become Countess, Lady Grantham: queen of the county, presiding over your little kingdom at the sufferance of your lord. It is a great honor, Mary: you should be grateful. You will be groomed for this your whole life and you will make your father proud. Come here and give your Papa a kiss; now off to bed with you.

But Matthew, he _saw_ her: her true self. He saw through her deceptions and her pretences, her armour and her attacks. He saw her pain and it hurt him, too. Whenever she thought of men in general, of how tedious or predictable or boorish or generally infuriating they were, some part of her always remembered _but Matthew isn't like that…_ She would acknowledge it and then brush it aside and continue on in her generalisation: but everyone _else_ was. How had Matthew so thoroughly wormed his way past her defences? Hadn't they always disliked each other? And then they had begun to share looks of instant understanding across the dinner table, and to laugh together. He was well-read, able to meet each challenge she'd posed him, and she each one that he'd volleyed back. There was a shared love of literature and an equal interest in dissecting it. He could be an uncomfortably acute observer of character.

The way he saw the world was maddening at times, but always when she reflected on it later, her heart was tugged, sometimes unwillingly, to acknowledge that perhaps he was right. What he valued had true value: it was not propped up merely by centuries of tradition and unquestioning acceptance. He thought about the world; he had strong convictions; he wasn't afraid to speak them out even if it put him at a disadvantage. Yes, he could be frightfully naïve and a prig, but the more she'd gotten to know him, the more she had come to respect him. He even accepted correction well: she'd seen her father take him to task and Matthew had borne up under it with surprising poise for so middle-class a person. She would be hard-pressed to name half a dozen men of her acquaintance, lords or heirs all, whom she could imagine responding with such grace to correction. For all their airs and graces, Matthew was the true gentleman, and this realisation shocked her. How far from true noblewoman she was!

She burned with broken shame in the rush of all these thoughts, in the heartbeats after their lips parted. His warm forehead rested against hers and she felt his breath run across her open lips. His breathing was heavy and quick. He swallowed and licked his lips, pulling back, and she immediately felt the loss of his warmth. He grasped her hands in his own, resting his forearms on his knees as he leaned nearer again. His eyes sought out her own, which she raised to meet his only reluctantly, because she feared that he would see her secret exposed in them. _God, his eyes were so beautiful._ She almost cringed away in her feeling of intense unworthiness.

"Marry me," he breathed.

She blinked. Had she just heard him correctly? Had he really just _proposed?_ Disbelief, elation, internal mockery at how ludicrous it was to think that she had truly heard him correctly, a mad and wild hope, anger, and helpless frustration all rose at once and warred within her. If she'd had to marry Patrick without a choice in the matter, then by God he was going to propose properly to her: she was going to have a perfectly impressive ring, and he was going down on one knee and saying the right words and making her a formal and unambiguous offer that she would imperiously accept while looking down at him–probably her one opportunity to do so. That was what she had imagined: a scene of the utmost propriety and the brief sense of being worth at least a proper proposal. Love didn't enter into it; it was the due of a Lady and she would have it that way and he would not deny her.

But here _Matthew_ was, sitting in a chair opposite her with his mouth hanging open like a guppy and not even _asking_ her, for God's sake, but _commanding_ her. No knee, no ring, no proper words, no permission from her father, and no warning.

"After only one kiss?" she demanded in disbelief, her voice suddenly sharp and hard in the stillness of the room.

Matthew, infuriatingly, smiled in what she could only think of as a very male way, and said, "Do you require another?" as he leaned back in to claim her lips once more.

Her righteous indignation took a back seat at the prospect of tasting him again, and now his grip on her hands tightened and relaxed in time with the rhythm of his kiss and her fingers slipped between his, brushing against his warm skin. She slid her fingertips up his wrists and under the edges of his cuffs; his palms cupped her wrists by the time their mouths broke apart. She paused to catch her breath, her eyes falling to fix on the sight of her fingertips hidden beneath his shirt, resting against the soft, light hairs peeking out from under the cuffs.

"Well?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that made her shiver pleasantly. She swallowed.

"It's all…very sudden," she managed, stalling, dreading, wanting so badly and yet dying inside as she knew that she would never have. _God_, she didn't deserve him. What was she doing, leading him on in this…achingly pleasurable…way? She couldn't accept him without telling him about Kemal, but she recoiled from the very idea of doing so. She would be horribly exposed and he would despise her. She couldn't bear to see the warmth in his eyes turn to cold and righteous censure as he pulled away from her, never to return. She needed distance so she could think.

Matthew saw Mary withdrawing even as she clutched his wrists and he immediately felt an idiot for pressuring her so suddenly like this. His proposal had made perfect sense to him in the moment, but they had run from cold to hot without warning. He had not courted her properly. Of course she couldn't feel for him yet as intensely as he felt for her; he'd been aware of his attraction to her for nigh on two years now and had grown accustomed to its near-daily presence. But what did she feel? Had she even wanted to kiss him this evening or had he imposed himself on her?

No–not that: her response had been unmistakable. But perhaps her attraction to him was a recent, tentative thing. He should treat it as fragile and not trample on her so thoughtlessly.

"I'm sorry! Of course you needn't answer right now," he assured her, loosening his grip on her wrists and sitting back slightly. "I can wait for as long as you need."

Mary's eyes widened as she considered the escape that he was offering. She could tell him that she needed to think about it–_Hah!_ something inside of her scoffed–and then she wouldn't have to tell him about Kemal yet. She could wait, she could figure something out, perhaps talk to her mother, or to Granny, and ask for their advice. She could get the distance she suddenly both dreaded and craved.

She wanted to stand up and draw this evening to a close–she had so much to consider!–but as she turned the possibilities over in her mind, she knew with a heavy, sinking feeling that there was no way out of this hell she had created for herself, no advice that anyone else could give her that would make this easier to navigate. Either she must refuse him or she must tell him and then he would refuse her. Delay would achieve nothing except to inflict further pain on them both. Not telling him was not an option; she could not catch him with a lie. Her stomach tightened and lurched and she felt a sudden welling of hot tears, which she quickly covered with her hands, pulling them abruptly from his grasp to do so.

She heard his soft inhalation of breath, his shock. "I'm sorry–I'm so sorry, Mary, please…please forgive me. I'm new at this," she heard him say, a rising tremor at the end of his words.

Oh God, _he_ was apologising to _her_.

"I can't–," she choked out, her own voice breaking. Her hands were pressed against her face to hide her tears, but it was a fruitless endeavour, if she were to be honest. _Honest_, how laughable. This thought brought about a new burn of tears. Her eyes and throat stung from the effort of preventing them from falling.

Matthew waited for her in agonised silence, until he finally asked, "You can't–what?" He dreaded hearing her answer.

She shook her head, her hands still covering her face. "I'm no good for you," she whispered. He couldn't believe what he had heard. Lady Mary Crawley not good enough for _him_? He nearly laughed out loud at the very idea, but he stopped before he wounded her or made an even greater fool of himself.

He ran his fingers along the edges of her hands, trying to convince her to draw them away from her lovely face so that he could get a clear look at her. He had made her cry, which was the last thing that he ever expected the cool Lady Mary to do, and he felt a right brute.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "Of course you're good enough for me! I'm a middle-class lawyer, for goodness' sake. I should never have presumed–"

"No," she cut him off, dropping one hand to flutter briefly against his knee before pulling it back as though burned. She tried to wipe at her eyes with her other hand, but she couldn't catch all of her tears.

The sight stabbed his chest with a thousand tiny pinpricks of shame. What could he do? He settled for the first reasonable thought that occurred to him and he reached back to fish his handkerchief out of his pocket. He held it out to her, a white flag in an inadequate peace-offering.

"Here," he said. She gave a soft breath of a laugh and took it, pressing her hands once more to her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, sitting up and straightening her back as she dried her eyes. "I don't know what came over me."

His eyes narrowed. "I find that hard to believe."

Her gaze shot up to him and he was surprised to discover shame in her eyes. No; he must have been mistaken.

She let out another bitter laugh and dropped her hands to her lap in frustration. "Perhaps I do know, then, but I can't–" she broke off.

"You can't what?"

"I can't speak of it."

He reached for her hands again, one still clutching the dampened handkerchief. "Yes, you can," he said. "Or aren't we friends enough for that?"

"Oh, Matthew! Have we ever truly been friends?"

He had no answer to that.

She shook her head, trying to draw her hands away from his. He let her go.

"Is that a no, then?" he pushed out through a painfully tight throat, sure that once he was out of her presence he wouldn't be able to stop his own tears. All his efforts were for naught again, but this time the wounds were so deep that he felt an almost physical pain in his chest. It was a good thing that the path to Crawley House was dark and generally deserted at this time of night.

"No, it's not," she said quickly, leaning towards him when he turned in his chair to stand up. Her eyes were wide and filled with pain, and it arrested him. She wasn't playing, he realised. She was struggling with something. He turned back to her again, his body tense, afraid of another blow.

"What is it then, Mary?"

After a long moment of staring at him in silence, she suddenly stood up and moved away from him. "I can't tell you!"

He rose to follow her. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Because you would despise me and that I could not bear!" Her back was still to him.

He couldn't imagine ever despising this maddening, beautiful woman. He took a step closer to her and laid a hand on her upper arm. He felt her tremble through the thin fabric.

"Even so, please tell me," he said. Although she remained silent before him, she did not move away from his touch. "Let me share your burden, Mary, please."

His words seemed to break something in her and she spun around to face him, her eyes flashing. "You can't share my burden, Matthew! It's my shame to bear!"

"I already _am_ sharing it, Mary."

The truth of his words cut her to the quick and her eyes widened. Oh God, he was right. The moment she'd kissed him, she had dragged him into her circle of hell. He could no more escape the repercussions of her foolishness now than she could. If she stopped now, she would be wounding him more deeply than she ever had before. But if she pressed forward and told him the truth, would it hurt him even more? She didn't know the answer and she hated this moment with every fiber of her being. Why, oh why, had she ever flirted with Kemal? He had meant nothing to her, and he had imposed himself on her, and she was angry at him even though he was dead.

Dead! As irrational as she knew it to be, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was cursed, that Kemal had died because of her, that there was something terribly wrong with her, and that Matthew could suffer the same fate at her hands. It was utterly ridiculous and yet it filled her with an awful panic. Matthew didn't deserve such a fate! She had to stop him from coming any closer; surely breaking it off with him now would be the more humane course to take. As she opened her mouth to say the words that would end this beautiful, terrible evening, he stepped close to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. The gesture was so like Papa's from her childhood that a sob rose suddenly in her throat and her resolve fled. A feeling of safety and protection tried to flood through her even as she trembled from the force of her fear.

"I love you, Mary," Matthew said. "I would never–I _could_ never–despise you."

She stared up at him with wide eyes. First a kiss–such a kiss!–then a proposal, and now this? She felt her knees weaken in shock and she quickly placed her hands on his chest to steady herself.

"Tell me, Mary, please."

She wanted to protest, to dodge, to avoid, to run away and never wound him again, but she couldn't hide from him any longer. He had laid himself bare before her; it was only right for her to do the same. If he rejected her, she would understand. She would accept her fate, because she could not change it. She never could.

"I took a lover. Kemal Pamuk," she forced out, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Shock froze Matthew's features, but she pressed on. "And he died…" she choked, her posture deflating, "…in my bed."

All her fears were confirmed when she felt Matthew's hands drop away from where they had rested on her upper arms, the uncovered skin now cold. He took a step back from her and her hands fell away from his chest. She felt alone and exposed. She did not pursue him as he backed further away; she did not beg him for forgiveness; she did not cry anew. Now that the words were out there between them, she felt a strange sense of relief. Her fate was fixed; all rested in Matthew's hands now. She would know one way or the other by the end of this evening if she would live with a broken heart or a whole one, as she realized in a blinding flash that she never quite felt wholly herself when Matthew wasn't nearby. In these last months, she'd missed him acutely, so much more than she would miss a mere friend. She had been right earlier: he had never been just her friend. Without her knowing quite how, he had become someone far dearer and more necessary to her than that.

She realised all of this with a clarity of truth that brought with it a strange peace, even as she watched his shocked face and waited.

His features were frozen as he took in what she had told him. He was no doubt imagining the events of that awful night. She wanted to reassure him but had nothing to offer, so she remained silent. He had been willing to wait for her answer earlier; she could do him the same courtesy now, even though her skin crawled in fearful anticipation.

He turned his back on her and stepped further away and her heart fell. Her breathing felt too loud in the silence. She would lose him. It was no more than she deserved, but she was still struck by the terrible unfairness of it all. How foolish she'd been, a mere girl. She felt miles away now from who she had been then, even though the events had occurred only a few rooms away from where they now stood.

Matthew turned around partway and her breath caught in her throat. He seemed to be warring with himself. She wanted to cry out and demand a response from him, but she held her tongue. She owed him that courtesy, at least.

He finally settled on a thought. "Why?"

This was not what she was expecting. She had no answer.

Matthew looked at her. "Did you love him?"

"You mustn't try to–"

"Because if it was love–"

"How could it be love? I didn't know him!"

"Then why would you–"

"It was lust, Matthew!" His expression shifted in some unnameable way at this, but Mary pressed on. "Or a need for excitement or something in him that I–oh God, what difference does it make? I'm Tess of the d'Urbervilles to your Angel Clare. I have fallen. I'm no good for you!"

"Don't joke! Don't make yourself into something you're not, not when I'm trying to understand!"

Mary paused, her heart thudding in her chest. Had she heard him correctly? She focused on him again. "Thank you for that. But the fact remains that I am made different by it. Things have changed between us."

Matthew looked at her. "Have they?"

Mary stared at him in disbelief. "How could they not?"

"Because I know you, Mary. This is not you."

Oh no, he was in denial. No, no, no. She must not allow him to ignore it. "But it is! I did it! I am impure!"

His face flashed with sudden anger. "Don't say that!"

"But it's true!"

He stepped swiftly towards her and clasped her upper arms again, the pressure of his hands underlining the importance that he gave his words. "Listen to me, Mary." His voice was low and rough. "You are not defined by one act. Perhaps you made a mistake, but you are more than the mistake!"

She shook her head. "This act _does_ define me. I cannot escape that fact."

"Everyone is impure; we live in a fallen world."

She glared at him. "Don't quote Scripture at me."

He sighed. "Why do you let this one act define you?"

She stared at him, her frustration rising. It wasn't merely a matter of _letting_ anything happen: it just did. She had recurring nightmares of being trapped under Kemal's dead body. Her own body would forever hold the memory of his touch. And worse even than her private shame, somehow–she didn't know how–there were whispers in London that she was not virtuous. People would look at her differently and close their doors to her. Why couldn't Matthew understand that she couldn't _help_ being defined by this one act?

She shook her head and looked away from him.

"Do you think I am without sin?" he asked.

She pulled her shoulders free, disbelieving. How could he be so blind? She couldn't imagine the righteous Matthew Crawley doing anything to compare to her own fall. Her voice was laced with sharp, mocking edges. "So you've given yourself to a woman whom you cared nothing for and even tried to refuse?"

He froze.

She frowned. Had she been right with her mocking barb? Suddenly the image of him in the arms of another woman filled her mouth with ashes and her stomach with pain, as her whole body screamed a protest. Dear God, this must be only a fraction of his own response to her confession, for hers was not imagined. She turned away, unable to face him any longer.

He came swiftly around beside her until he faced her and he took hold of her upper arms again, but this time the pressure was uncomfortable. She stared at him in shock as he bent to fix her in a gaze that was suddenly unbearably intense.

"Mary, did he force you?"

She shook her head and looked away. She'd chosen to give herself to Kemal; the fault was entirely hers.

"But you tried to refuse him?" Matthew's grip tightened further and she gasped and glared at him.

"You're hurting me," she said.

He let go of her instantly, apology in his expression before he fixed that gaze on her again. "Tell me what happened," he said, his tone suddenly cool.

She balked at the prospect. He wanted her to relive that awful night?

"Why?"

"Because I need to understand, Mary."

"But you _do_ understand! I've told you everything that matters!"

"No," his eyes softened. "You haven't."

"Stop saying that! I'm not virtuous. I'm–"

"Mary," his voice took on a commanding tone that surprised her and again reminded her eerily of her father. Then Matthew's voice quieted again. "A woman without virtue would not feel shame as you do. Her eyes would not be filled with such pain as I see in yours." His hand came up to touch the side of her face with aching gentleness.

She still could not let him avoid the truth; playing games with the word 'virtue' would not erase her past. She chose a word that would allow him no ambiguity. "I am no longer a virgin, Matthew. Don't play with me. I don't deserve it, not from you."

To her surprise, a small smile tugged at his lips before he became serious again. "I'm not playing with you and I'm not denying the facts of what you're telling me. I'm just not convinced of your interpretation of them. I can't resolve the woman I see standing before me with the one you seem to see yourself as."

"Why not?"

"Because you are not that woman, Mary. You are warm, clever, strong–"

"Foolish."

He did laugh this time. "Yes."

Now she was affronted. "You agree so easily with that!"

"I've been a fool, too, Mary."

"Yes?" she snapped, sceptical that it could compare to her folly. "About what?"

"'They're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me!'" he quoted, with as affronted an expression as he could manage.

She actually giggled, surprising herself.

"I'm so glad you pushed in," he said softly, his other hand coming up to cup her elbow. She still clutched his handkerchief against her stomach, and she bumped her knuckles affectionately against his suit coat. His eyes rested on the side of her face, following the path of his hand as he moved it up to her temple. His fingers found a tendril of hair there to brush against. She closed her eyes, feeling tingling warmth at his touch, and swallowed hard. Strong, was she? She didn't feel it. She felt weak and weary and unworthy of his love.

"He pushed in," she said in nearly a whisper, and she felt Matthew's fingers still against her skin. Swallowing again, she opened her eyes and met his. They encouraged her to continue. "I don't know how he found my room, how he even knew which one was mine."

Matthew's eyebrows rose. Even he had no idea which room was hers; that oversight was intentional and entirely a good idea, in his opinion. He could only imagine what he'd be tempted to do otherwise.

"I was reading and suddenly, there he was." Her gaze fell into the middle distance.

Matthew rested his hand against the curve of her neck and waited for her to continue. She pressed through the rest of her story in a rush:

"I asked him to leave, he refused, I threatened to scream–" Matthew's fingers tightened at these words and then he relaxed them. "–and he said that it was too late: even if I screamed, a man would still be discovered in my bedroom and my reputation would still be tarnished." The black expression that took over Matthew's face shocked her, but his gentle fingers encouraged her to continue. "So I let him. Do what he wanted. And I kissed him back." Her face twisted at the memory. Kemal hadn't been violent, but he had been focused on what he wanted from her. She hadn't been ready, she'd been a little afraid, and the unexpected pleasure that she'd experienced had faded too quickly after he had collapsed on top of her. She shuddered. "So you see, I _am_ at fault."

"No!" The word escaped Matthew in a rush and he pulled her against his chest. "No, he took terrible advantage of you!" His arms tightened around her and after a moment of resistance, she relaxed into his embrace. He was so unlike Kemal! Matthew's hold was comforting, not demanding. "He was no gentleman. You must not blame yourself."

"But I let him–"

"You felt trapped. It was rape, Mary."

She pulled back in shock. "But he never forced me!"

"Physical force is not the only kind of coercion."

She trembled and leaned against him, only now realizing that _he_ was trembling as well. She moved her arms up to hold him in return and she felt him sigh. She marveled at this moment: she had never expected anything close to this kind of response. Her best hope had been that he would look at her with disgust and ask for time to think about it and he might return days? weeks? later with a stern acceptance of her shame, which she would spend the rest of her days atoning for. Yet here he stood, holding her close, his breath stirring her hair, absolving her of all guilt. His words made her doubt herself, but she wasn't sure how to feel yet. She didn't feel comfortable with absolution.

"So I take it he died after…" his voice was rough.

She hated reliving this. She hated it. "During."

He shuddered but did not release her.

"Oh God, Mary, I'm so sorry."

There was nothing she could say to that, so she just tightened her arms around him for a moment and he answered her in kind. She didn't want to talk about this anymore. She never wanted to talk about it again. She wanted to put it behind her. It had been looming heavily over her future for far too long. Speaking of which…

"So does this mean you've forgiven me?" she asked.

She felt him shake his head against hers. "No, I haven't forgiven you."

Surprised and disappointed, she pulled away. "Well, then."

"Mary! Mary," he called her back and she looked at him in confusion. "I haven't forgiven you because I don't believe you need my forgiveness."

She fought back a fresh desire to burst into tears, but now for an entirely different reason. God, this man! How could he do this to her? She was lost to him, she…loved him, terribly. She smiled at him through eyes that were blurred around the edges.

"So will you?" he asked, drawing closer to her with a smile.

She frowned for a moment, blinking, and then realized what he was asking. Schooling her features to hide the jolt of delight, she stepped back and smoothed out her dress, one hand still clutching his handkerchief. She went over and laid it on the sideboard, then turned back to him. She needed to do this properly.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Because I might make a terrible wife for a country solicitor."

He smiled and shook his head, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers in a smugly self-assured way. "You'll be magnificent."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "That seems a rather grandiose word to describe such a position."

"It doesn't describe the position," he said. "It describes you."

She tried not to blush and failed. How could he still see her this way after everything he now knew about her? She tried again to be sensible, since he clearly wasn't capable of it.

"What if I can't be happy living a middle-class life?" she persisted. "What if I start to resent you for not being able to maintain me in the manner to which I am accustomed?"

He regarded her seriously, pursing his lips as he nodded. "Do you think that is likely to happen?"

She thought about it for a long moment. What would she be giving up, really? Dressing for dinner every night? A full wardrobe of perfectly-tailored, fashionable clothes? An immediate title? Enough servants to fill a mansion? A succession of tedious social calls where everyone constantly sized everyone else up? She'd told him not long ago that her life made her angry and it did. What would she be gaining if she joined him in his? Could his companionship and affection really compensate for all that would necessarily change for her? And what of…children? What kind of mother would he expect her to be? Slight trepidation filled her: middle-class families did not usually have nannies and governesses, she thought. Actually, now that Mary considered it, she didn't know how many household staff they could expect to employ on his salary and she balked at the idea of cleaning and cooking herself. She knew nothing about how to do either and she suddenly felt intensely useless. What had she been learning to do the whole of her life? Speak French and discuss fashion and direct servants? Of what practical use was that? She couldn't run her own home without help, not yet at least, but if she married him, would she be expected to? Then she relaxed a little: she recalled that Mrs Bird had arrived at Crawley House with Matthew and his mother; they had had a cook, at least. And given Isobel's preoccupation with the hospital, they had likely had a maid as well. Molesley seemed to be a fine butler, in addition to being Matthew's valet. He was no Carson, of course, but Carson belonged at Downton. Mary started to relax a little, but she was still uncertain. Would Matthew expect her to move to Crawley House? She balked at the prospect of living with Isobel. Perhaps it would be easier to convince him to move into Downton.

"I don't know," she said. Matthew nodded and looked down for a moment. Mary felt intensely awkward, not wanting to leave him in such a place. "…but I don't think so," she finished.

He looked up at her with a smile. "A wise answer."

"What about you?" she asked. "I haven't always treated you as well as you deserve. I can't promise not to make that same mistake again. Can you live with me without coming to resent me?"

He tilted his head and looked at her for a long moment. Just as she began to feel a dart of uncertainty, he took a step towards her. "I don't know for certain," he replied. "…but I think so. On one condition."

She arched an eyebrow. "And that is?"

"Be honest with me. Always."

She smiled and nodded.

The grin that lit up his face was beautiful. "So you will?" he asked, taking another step closer.

She lifted her chin. "Matthew, I won't give you an answer unless you say it properly, kneel down and everything."

He chuckled and shook his head in wry disbelief.

"Honestly, I'm a bit disappointed," she confessed, trying to hide an insistent smile.

His grin disappeared. "By what?"

"You've been avoiding me for almost eight months, and then you propose to me after just one kiss. Have you taken leave of your senses?"

He exhaled a brief laugh and then sobered. "No, I haven't taken leave of my senses. When a man feels about a woman as I feel about you, he proposes."

"Without a reasonable delay?" She spoke archly although his words had sent a pleasurable tingle throughout her body. But she wasn't about to give him any ground.

"And just what would be a reasonable delay?" he retorted, raising his eyebrows as he made a final step to stand directly in front of her.

Mary cast about for an answer and couldn't think of one, not if he felt for her half as much as she felt for him. God, she would marry him tonight if she could, and a thrill shot through her at this realisation.

He took her silence for the concession that it was and tilted his head in satisfaction.

"You accused me before of not being fastidious about doing things properly, but I am. Very much so. Just not about unimportant things like wine in water glasses."

Mary smirked. "If you're so fastidious, why are you still on your feet?"

He fixed her in a look of affectionate reproof and then took a step back, pulling his hands out of his pockets. She felt something squeeze in her chest as he lowered himself to one knee before her and took both of her hands in his own. He tilted his face up to hers and she couldn't prevent a smile from taking over her features this time. His grew to match and he began, with a slight tremor in his voice, "Lady Mary Crawley…" he suddenly looked down, bashful, and then met her eyes again. "Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Her heart took flight, even as his hands held her to the earth.

"Yes!"

He rose immediately and beamed at her for a moment, until she reached up and drew him down to kiss him thoroughly. His arms came around her waist and when she broke the kiss, he hugged her so tightly that when he straightened up, he lifted her feet off the floor. She clutched his back and felt a giggle bubble up despite her ribcage being partially crushed. He buried his face in her shoulder and laughed, then eased her back down until she stood before him again.

"I'll speak with your father first thing tomorrow." His eyes twinkled. "I want to do this _properly_."

Oh God, her family. They were all going to be crowing. Then she gave a mental shrug. Before this evening, the thought of conforming to the fitness of things, of doing what was expected of her, would have set her hackles up, but somehow, now…it didn't matter. She knew her own heart, she knew what she wanted, and she was ready to take on the changes that it would bring. Who knew what the future held? She was so glad that now she looked forward to it instead of being indifferent to it or dreading it.

He loved her!

* * *

_Author's Notes_

Gratia to: my wonderful beta readers, **Lala Kate** and **La Donna Ingenua**, for their generosity in donating their time to a new, unknown writer in the Downton Abbey fandom, and for helping me to improve my writing in significant ways. Their encouragement and suggestions have been invaluable! Also a shout-out to **Silvestria** for her Britpicking tips and willingness to answer my questions. Enormous thanks also, of course, to Julian Fellowes, Michelle Dockery, and Dan Stevens, for obvious reasons, and to all the folks involved in creating this beloved show. I happily owe you a debt that I can never repay. :) Thanks to the Lord, for doing all the real storytelling and helping me to learn to write by faith :), and to my lovely husband, for supporting my passions and engaging with me on the finer points of the coming plot. I'm so grateful that I get to do this! What a joy it is to write. :-D

Onward!


	2. Chapter 2

_2_

Thomas entered the dining room with a brief bow. "Mr Crawley to see you, my lord. I've shown him to the library."

Robert looked up from his paper, surprised. "At this hour? Did he say what it was about?"

"No, my lord."

Robert nodded, laying aside his paper and taking a final draw of his tea before setting down the empty cup. "Very well. Please inform him that I'll be by in a moment."

"Very good, my lord." Thomas exited the room.

Mary, Edith, and Sybil sat watching Robert as he left his napkin on the table and rose. They hadn't been as combative as usual this morning, he thought. It was nice to get through breakfast for once without having to listen to Mary and Edith sniping at one another, although listening to Sybil chatter on about some pamphlet she'd read on women's suffrage hadn't been much better. Robert was starting to think that Branson was a bad influence, although he was a fine chauffeur and hadn't done anything truly objectionable yet. Yet. Robert still wasn't convinced that Branson hadn't played some part in putting Sybil in danger yesterday, despite her protests to the contrary.

Robert folded his paper and tucked it under his arm, intending to finish reading it after he'd dealt with whatever business Matthew had brought. Perhaps it was something to do with one of the cottages, though why the boy couldn't have waited another hour for their usual walk of the grounds to discuss it was a mystery to him.

"Why, Mary, you're blushing!" Sybil exclaimed.

Robert paused in his movements to look at his eldest daughter. There was a heightened colour in her cheeks. "Mary?" he asked. "Are you well?"

"Quite well, Papa," Mary replied coolly, lifting her teacup to her lips. Sybil shot Edith a delighted, conspiratorial glance, but Edith merely sat back with a sour look on her face. Robert sighed inwardly and turned back to Carson.

"I'll be in the library if Lady Grantham asks," he told the butler. "But I might leave early for my morning walk with Mr Crawley. I should be back in time for lunch."

Carson nodded. "And should we expect Mr Crawley to be joining the family for lunch?"

Robert looked at him. What an unusual question. Sybil made a humming noise and Robert frowned, glancing at her. She was fighting a smile. Edith was staring at her plate. Mary was quite deliberately cutting her meal into tiny pieces, her back stiff. Robert felt his usual sense of annoyance at suspecting that he didn't know what the women of his house were getting up to. He put them out of his mind and turned back to Carson. Matthew never stayed for lunch after their morning walks; he usually took a half-day off work and then left immediately for Ripon. Carson knew this, of course.

"I doubt it, but it's probably best to let Mrs Patmore know we might have one more."

"Very good, my lord." Carson nodded.

Robert shot one final glance at his daughters and left the dining room in search of Matthew.

He found the younger man standing by a window in the library, his hands clasped behind his back. Matthew immediately turned to face him when he entered.

"Matthew," Robert greeted him with a smile. "What's this about? Do you need to get to work earlier today? We can cancel our walk if you'd like." Robert dropped his newspaper onto his desk and glanced at the small stack of post that Carson had left for him–a letter from Murray, two bills.

Matthew cleared his throat. "Actually, Robert, I need to ask you something."

Robert looked up from his letters with a frown. "Is everything alright?" he asked. "The plumbing at Crawley House hasn't backed up again, has it?"

Matthew laughed. "No. Barnes sorted that last week. Mrs Bird sends her hearty thanks, as does my mother."

Robert nodded, laying the letters down and putting his hands in his pockets. "What is it, then?"

Matthew swallowed and glanced aside for a moment, shifting his feet nervously, and Robert frowned. What was it with everyone this morning? There wasn't a full moon that Robert could recall.

"Lord Grantham, I–" Robert's eyebrows shot up. Matthew never addressed him so formally. "–I'd like to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Robert's mouth dropped open in surprise, and he pulled his hands out of his pockets and took a step closer to Matthew, whose eyes widened in something approaching fear. "Excuse me?"

Matthew swallowed. "Mary. I want to marry her."

"Mary?" Robert knew that he sounded an idiot, but he couldn't quite wrap his head around the fading hope that seemed to be suddenly coming true right in front of him. "But you haven't spoken so much as three words to each other in months..."

Matthew frowned and looked away, closing his mouth. Robert blinked. Last night! He'd left Mary to look after Matthew's late-night supper, after the whole fiasco with Sybil at the rally. He really needed to take Branson to task for that. Maybe he'd call in the chauffeur for a proper dressing-down this afternoon. The man needed to know his place.

Robert looked at Matthew's tense expression and suddenly smiled. Was that all it took, leaving him and Mary alone in a room together once? Robert should have arranged it months ago; he suppressed a smirk at the thought.

Ah, but this situation was a serious one, and Robert should take it seriously. He fixed a stern expression on his face, resisting the urge to skip the formalities and clap Matthew on the back in a hearty congratulations. Of course Robert was going to give his consent, but there was business to sort out first. "And what are Mary's views on the matter?" he asked.

A small smile broke on Matthew's face. "She has accepted my offer."

"You made it last night, I take it?"

Matthew nodded. Robert contemplated him for a long moment. He liked Matthew a great deal. The boy could be a bit stubborn at times, but what Crawley man wasn't? He was intelligent, kind, and well-spoken, and he'd adapted to this new life far better than Robert had expected. Robert was not worried about the future of the estate in Matthew's hands, although the boy still had a long way to go before he'd be ready to take over. As delighted as Robert was to hear of this development–Mary would finally inherit the estate, as she always should have, and she would even have as her partner in life a man who would be fond of her, not a marriage of mere convenience–it was difficult to contemplate the reality of giving her to any man, even Matthew. There was an ache in Robert's chest as he realized that the day he'd both dreaded and hoped for was fast approaching. He and Cora had had their children, and now it was time to begin to step aside and make way for the next generation. He was giving his daughter away; he would no longer be the foremost man in her life, no longer able to protect her as fully as he wished to. No matter how tidy this connection would be, he could not give his permission so easily. He must be sure.

He strode across the room and rang the bell. William pushed the door open a moment later.

"You rang, my lord?"

"Yes, William, would you fetch Lady Mary, please?"

With a quick nod, William turned on his heel and let the door swing closed behind him. Robert approached Matthew. "What changed?"

"Excuse me?"

"What prompted your offer last night?"

Matthew looked out the window onto the grounds. "She indicated that she was amenable to the idea," he said.

Robert gave a short laugh. "Well said."

Matthew responded with a tentative smile, then sobered. "There's one thing you haven't asked me, Robert."

Robert stepped up beside him and they both looked out the window now. "What's that?"

"Whether I love her."

Robert nodded. "I don't need to."

Matthew seemed to take offense at this. "I know you probably think it terribly middle-class of me–"

"No," Robert answered. "I don't. You misunderstand me."

Matthew subsided.

"I know it's common among our kind of people to marry for reasons other than love," Robert said. "But it's a practical thing, not because we don't love as well as anyone else. You must understand," he looked at Matthew. "Mary is a target. A man can feign love and evoke it in a woman, taking advantage of her for her fortune and sabotaging her future and that of any children she may have. She would have no recourse under the law. It has happened before and it is an ugly thing." He looked away again. "We've learned to guard our hearts. She's been taught to do so, for her own protection."

"I hadn't really thought of it that way."

"Mm. Her settlement will be very generous, although not nearly as much as she deserves, what with the terms of the entail."

Matthew shook his head. "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Now that is very middle-class of you," Robert teased, then sobered. "If you go through with this, you will need to consider it."

Matthew gave a curt nod.

"And to return to my earlier point: I don't need to ask you if you love her." Robert smiled. "Your regard for her has been obvious to me and Cora for a long time."

Matthew winced. "Really?"

Robert laughed. "You haven't been trained to hide your feelings, Matthew."

"No," Matthew agreed with a smile. Both men turned when the door opened behind them and William stepped in.

"Lady Mary, my lord."

"Thank you, William. That will be all."

Mary walked into the library, her face and form betraying nothing. A pang struck Robert at the sight. For all that he'd just told Matthew, it still hurt sometimes to see her so guarded. He remembered a carefree, loving child, skipping into the library, her dark braids swinging behind her, eager to show him a newly-discovered passage in a favourite book, but those days were long past. When was the last time she had come, eager to share something with him? She'd withdrawn behind a wall of cool poise one day, it seemed, and had never returned. He felt a bit of hope, though, as he glanced between her and Matthew. If anyone could draw her true nature out, it would be Matthew. Mary lit up in his presence more than she ever did in anyone else's. Now, though, she stood slim and straight, a polite smile on her face as she regarded them.

"You sent for me, Papa?"

"Yes," he answered, repressing a smile. "Matthew tells me that he made you an offer of marriage and that you accepted him. Is this true?"

The moment the words had left him, Mary's cool reserve fell away to be replaced by a dazzling smile. Robert realised with a shock that he couldn't remember when he'd last seen her smile so freely. Had she been so unhappy? How had he not noticed? This smile alone was enough to do away with any last shred of reservation that he may have harboured.

"Yes, Papa." Her voice was calm but her face was alight. He swallowed back a lump in his throat at the sight.

"Then I give you both my blessing, without reservation," he answered, joy flooding him. Matthew grinned as Mary swept across the room towards them, throwing her arms around Robert's neck.

"Thank you, Papa!"

He held her tightly for a moment. How much longer would she be his little girl? He fought back tears again.

When he released her, he was pleased to see her hand drift to link with Matthew's.

"Your mother is going to be beside herself," Robert said, looking forward to breaking the news to his wife. Oftentimes her unbridled displays of emotion were a source of great joy to him, and he certainly expected this one to be.

"Undoubtedly," Mary said dryly. "But Papa, do you think you could wait and not tell her?"

"Whatever for?" he frowned.

Mary glanced at Matthew and then looked back at Robert. "We'd like to announce it properly at dinner tonight, when Granny and Cousin Isobel can be there as well. To contain the joy."

Matthew laughed. "I don't think anything can do that, my darling."

Mary's eyebrows shot up and she looked at him for a long moment, a new smile playing at her lips. Turning back to Robert, she said, "Be that as it may, I don't think Mama will be able to contain herself, and I could not bear a day of playing Chinese whispers with everyone, including the staff." She cocked an eyebrow at him and he nodded.

"Very well. But tonight at dinner. I won't be able to keep it from your mother this evening otherwise. She has an uncanny ability to call me out. As it is, I'll have to find an excuse to avoid her for most of the day." He looked at Matthew. "Shall we tour some of the more far-flung edges of the estate, do you think, and perhaps take lunch in the village?"

Matthew laughed and shook his head. "Sorry. I've got a one o'clock appointment at the office today and a fearsome array of work promised by the end of the week. If I want to be able to make it back in time to dress for dinner tonight, perhaps I should take a rain check on our usual tour of the cottages."

"Fair enough," Robert said. "I'll hold you to it. Saturday instead?"

"That should be fine."

"I'll leave you two to your business, then," Mary said. "I promised Sybil some of my time this morning."

Robert caught her free hand as she started to step away. He gave her an affectionate squeeze. "I'm so happy for you, my dear."

"Thank you, Papa," she said with an answering smile. "I'll see you at dinner. Shall I tell Carson not to expect you for lunch?"

"That's probably for the best," he answered, releasing her. "I've been needing to stop by Coulton's farm; today might be just the day to do it." The farm was on the border that the estate shared with Sir Anthony's property. It would take the bulk of the morning to reach it on foot, and perhaps he could stop in to chat with Sir Anthony for a bit. He needed to have a word with the man about Edith, anyway. He blinked; everything seemed to be happening at once. "Have a good day."

Mary smiled, and with one last, warm glance at Matthew, left the room.

"Congratulations," Robert said, shaking Matthew's hand and clapping him on the shoulder. "I couldn't be more pleased."

Matthew grinned. "Thank you, Robert. That means more to me than you can know." With a final nod, he strode towards the door. "See you at dinner."

Robert watched the spring in the younger man's step and smiled as Matthew disappeared through the door. Yes, Robert was extremely pleased with this development.

Clapping his hands, he stepped out through the doors that opened onto the back lawn. "Pharaoh! Come on, boy! Pharaoh!" A moment later, Pharaoh came loping around the corner of the house, crashing through a flowerbed and leaving it in partial disarray. His mother would take him to task for that if she saw it. He needed to find a gardener before he left. He paused to breathe in the morning air and smiled as Pharaoh came trotting up beside him. "Beautiful day, isn't it, boy?" he said, smiling, as he set out across the familiar green landscape.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

Many thanks to **Lala Kate** and **La Donna Ingenua** for their insights and corrections on this chapter. Also grateful to the Lord for giving me peace during an ongoing health scare with my daughter...it puts all my DA/writing passions into perspective. :)


	3. Chapter 3

_3_

Carson held out the box of cigars between Matthew and Robert and waited patiently as they each selected one and clipped off the ends.

"Will you be wanting more port this evening, my lord?"

Robert shook his head and struck a match. He gave Matthew a questioning glance, and Matthew looked quickly up at Carson as he took his own match and struck it.

"No, thank you, Carson."

Carson nodded, carrying away the cigar-box and setting it down on the sideboard. Glassware clinked as he set the decanter of port on his tray.

Robert lit his cigar and sat back with a satisfied draw. He watched Matthew light his own cigar and smiled.

"You have no idea how delighted I am, my boy," Robert said. "No idea."

Matthew exhaled, waving out the match and setting it down, and he looked away with a wry grin. "I might have some idea. But thank you for saying it all the same."

Robert gave a short laugh of acknowledgement.

Carson reappeared at their side with a slight bow. "Might I offer my congratulations as well, Mr Crawley? And on behalf of all the staff?"

Matthew met the butler's twinkling eyes with gratitude, feeling his cheeks warm. "I thank you, Carson."

Carson picked up his tray and turned to them. "Will that be all, my lord?"

"Yes, Carson, thank you," Robert replied. "And please pass my compliments on to Mrs Patmore: the treacle tart was delicious."

Carson smiled as he gave a slight bow. "She will be delighted to hear it. Have a good evening, my lord, Mr Crawley."

"You too," Matthew called back as Carson exited, earning him a tilt of the head, and then the two men were left alone in the dining room, the remnants of dinner still laid out on the table beside them. Matthew pushed a dessert plate aside and moved his glass of port to a more comfortable spot. They smoked in silence for a minute, Matthew acutely aware that Robert was watching him.

"So have you settled on a date?" Robert asked.

Matthew cleared his throat and shook his head. "I'm leaving that to Mary. Cousin Violet seems to have some definite opinions about avoiding May."

"Probably wise," Robert replied with a smirk. "It's best to stay out of the planning as much as possible. Crawley women can be tyrants in these matters."

Matthew laughed. "I can imagine."

They shared a look of understanding and went back to enjoying their port and cigars in a friendly silence.

"I must confess that I was surprised this morning," Robert said after a short while, rolling off a bit of ash. "I hadn't expected such happy news so soon. You've been making yourself scarce ever since the dinner party with Sir Anthony." His tone was light, but his eyes were fixed on Matthew.

Matthew shifted, using the excuse of tapping his own cigar to break from the older man's gaze. "My caseload has been heavier," he explained, not wanting to admit to a deliberate avoidance of the family. It was all water under the bridge now, anyway.

"By choice, I would imagine," Robert replied, although there was no rancor in his tone. Matthew's eyes darted to his and Robert raised his eyebrows. Matthew gave a short nod; there wasn't much point to denying what they both knew to be true. Robert took a sip of his port and sighed, then set his glass down. "I'm sorry, Matthew. Mary can be such a child sometimes."

"We all can be from time to time, I would imagine," Matthew said, his tone a bit sharper than it probably ought to have been. "She is extraordinary."

Robert laughed. "That she is! I am well aware of it." He shook his head with an affectionate smile, his gaze drifting into the middle distance. "You should have seen her as a child; she could match wits and best a grown man with her words and quotes. I had never known anyone so young could be so well-read, so quick with their understanding. She would have made a fearsome earl."

Matthew grinned, recalling the many verbal duels he'd engaged in with Mary and how much he enjoyed them. The prospect of having a wife with a similarly voracious appetite for good literature and with a wit as sharp as his own filled him with pleasure. Life with her would never be dull. For all her initial appearance of disdain at his preference for reading in his leisure time, he knew that she was a similar soul. Speaking of which: he made a mental note to invite her out for a ride. It was something that he'd long been intending but had never made the time to do since he'd arrived at Downton. Now that they were engaged, the family would police them closely, chaperoning all their interactions. A ride might be a rare opportunity to spend some time alone with her. He smiled at the thought.

Robert observed Matthew and chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you'd know that aspect of her well, wouldn't you?"

"Quite," Matthew replied, relaxing back into his chair and taking a sip of port.

"To be honest, watching your battles, I was starting to think you'd never get to the point where you'd be willing to offer and Mary would be willing to accept."

Matthew smiled ruefully. "Even after I had, it was still touch-and-go for a while there," he admitted. "What with the whole rotten business with Pamuk." He drew on the cigar and exhaled, focusing on calming the urge to hit something whenever he thought of the bastard. He glanced at Robert, expecting to share a brief look of righteous anger, and was unsettled when he didn't find it. Instead, Lord Grantham was staring at him with narrowed eyes. Matthew frowned. What was–?

The monumental nature of his error crashed in upon him in a terrible rush. _Robert didn't know._

Matthew suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

When Robert next spoke, his voice was deliberately calm, which only filled Matthew with a deeper sense of dread.

"What rotten business with Pamuk?" Lord Grantham asked. "What does a dead Turkish diplomat have to do with your engagement to Mary?"

Matthew suppressed a manic urge to flee; his fingers tightened on his cigar as he cast madly about for a way to escape this conversation. Mary was going to tear strips off him for this. Mary. "It's–it's not my tale to tell," he tried lamely, avoiding her father's eyes.

Robert set down his glass–his cigar was already resting on its tray–and leaned forward. "Whose tale is it, then, Matthew?"

Matthew felt a strange shiver at the way that Robert had said his name: it reminded him of his own late father, when he would call Matthew in to give an account for disobeying his mother or some such act of childish rebellion. He swallowed and looked up, meeting Robert's eyes. Matthew wondered how the truth of such a terrible event had escaped the earl's notice in the first place, but that was neither here nor there. He straightened in his chair and fixed Robert in a glare. The glare wasn't directed at Robert, but Matthew couldn't think of Mary's pain without being angry at its cause. "Mary's."

Robert frowned. "What's this about? Truly?"

Matthew considered his options. The thought of refusing to tell Robert and leaving Mary unexpectedly at the mercy of her father's unbridled wrath–for he was certain that Lord Grantham would not take this news quietly–seemed worse than revealing her confidence. He couldn't forewarn her at this point. Perhaps he could prepare Robert, soften the blow for her somehow, be on hand to cushion the impact. He made his decision.

Even so, actually managing to work the words out of his mouth, these words, and to her _father_…his heart pounded at the prospect. He felt a sudden desire to dig up the dead Turk and pummel him. Matthew's fingers clenched around the stem of his cigar and he remembered that he was still holding it. He practically threw it into its tray as he stood up, agitated. How to phrase it? Should he try to explain first?

He stopped, his hands working at his sides. Out with the damn truth, already. There was no way to explain an evil like this. He looked at Robert and, steeling himself, he bit out, "The bastard raped her, Robert."

Lord Grantham stood up so abruptly that he sent his chair crashing to the floor, unheeded behind him. His face was slack with shock, but it was only the pretence of calm before the storm. His features darkened and Matthew was suddenly acutely aware of how much larger Robert was than himself. For one, wild moment, as Robert's fists rose, Matthew thought that the earl might try to strangle him in Pamuk's place. _Don't kill the messenger!_ Matthew thought with an irrational, mad sort of humour that made him inexplicably want to cry.

"_What?!_" Lord Grantham demanded, taking a step towards him.

Matthew's arms instinctively rose up in a defensive gesture and he held his palms out in Robert's direction, trying to the turn the gesture into a calming one.

"_He did WHAT to Mary?!_"

Matthew heard a distant door crash open and realised that Lord Grantham was bringing the house down around them. This was quickly going to become a dreadful scene and horror shot through Matthew at the prospect. Public exposure was the very _last_ thing that he wanted for Mary. If she had managed to hide the terrible truth from her father, under his own roof, then she must have managed to hide it from everyone else as well. The servants! Her shame must not be exposed to anyone outside the family! It was awful enough that her family might know, but the world would censure her for something that had been beyond her control.

"Robert, shhh, please!" Matthew begged.

This was the wrong tactic.

"Don't you shush me, Matthew Crawley!" Robert advanced on him. "You will tell me _right now_ what the _hell_ is going on!"

Robert had gotten a grip on Matthew's lapels just as Mary pushed into the room, her eyes wide. "Papa!" she cried, rushing to Matthew's side. At the sight of his daughter, Robert seemed to realise that he was accosting the wrong man and he released Matthew immediately, stepping back and breathing hard. His eyes darted between the two of them.

"Papa, what are you _doing?_" Mary demanded. She looked at Matthew for an explanation and he swallowed. He'd gone about this at sixes and sevens, he realised too late. The hard look that came into Mary's eyes told him that he was going to answer for this later.

"Robert, language!" Cousin Violet's imperious voice sailed into the room through the open door. "What is going on here?"

"That's what I want to know!" her son shouted again.

"Voices, voices," Violet said as she appeared, holding her stick. "Shouting indoors is so middle-class."

Matthew watched with a sinking feeling as Sybil, Edith, and–oh God, his mother–crowded in behind the Dowager Countess, their eyes all as round as saucers. Cora trailed behind, an unreadable expression on her face.

"You're a grown man, Robert. Behave like one," Violet said, taking a seat that afforded her an excellent angle from which to view the combatants.

"I am!–" Robert visibly brought himself under control, "–behaving like one." His burning gaze fixed on Mary, and Matthew suppressed the urge to plant himself between father and daughter.

Robert seemed about to demand that Mary explain the situation but he paused with his mouth open, suddenly taking in the crowd that had entered the room.

Carson appeared at Cora's elbow. "Is something amiss, my lord?" His eyes raked the room, noting the overturned chair with a slight frown.

Cora looked at her husband with a pleading expression. Robert forcibly subsided and stood to his full height, drawing in a deep breath and tugging at his waistcoat to straighten it. "No, Carson, we are quite all right, thank you. We might be some time; we are not to be disturbed."

Carson looked concerned, but he merely said, "Very good, my lord," and turned to leave.

Cora touched his sleeve, giving him pause.

"My lady?"

"Carson, would you fetch Anna, please?"

The butler's face creased, but he merely nodded. "At once."

Cora turned to her two youngest daughters. "Sybil, Edith, it's time for you to retire."

Sybil made as if to protest, but one glance at her father's stony expression silenced her. She, admirably, suppressed a pout. "Good night, Granny," she said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her grandmother's cheek. Violet gave her a brief smile and a return of affection. Edith was next; she was strangely quiet, having put up no sign of protest at being dismissed. She followed Sybil from the room, glancing back once at Mary, and then the door closed behind them.

Into the deafening silence, his mother spoke. "Should I take my leave as well?"

A series of looks were exchanged; no one knew quite how to answer her. Matthew looked to Mary. Her face was pale and her shoulders were rigid. How he wished he could draw her into his embrace, but he was certain that neither propriety nor his fiancée would allow such an action. She was not meeting his eyes. He looked across the room to his mother, who nodded but looked displeased.

"I thank you for a lovely evening, Cousin Cora," she said crisply. "I'll just have Carson ring for the car. Matthew? Are you coming?"

"No, Mama," he answered. "I'll be home later." He would have told her not to wait up for him, but he knew it would be futile. His evening was far from over. He suppressed a sigh; this whole dreadful situation was his fault, and he would answer for it.

"Very well, good night then Cousin Robert, Cousin Violet, Mary," she nodded to them all with a tight smile and strode from the room. Those who remained were left in a tense silence, listening to her steps fade as the door closed behind her, each waiting for someone else to speak first.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Violet finally said. "Would someone please explain what's going on?"

A knock sounded on the door and they all turned as Carson entered, Anna slipping in behind him. Her eyes were wide as she took in the room's inhabitants and the tense atmosphere. "You called for me, Your Ladyship?"

Cora smiled at the young maid. "Lady Edith and Lady Sybil are retiring early this evening. Would you please see to them? And Anna: don't go far, please. We may have need of you in a short while."

Anna's eyes were wide but she gave a quick nod. "Of course, my lady. I'll just be upstairs."

"Thank you, Anna."

With the barest of curtsies, Anna walked out past Carson. "Will there be anything else, my lord?" he asked.

"No, thank you, Carson."

The butler nodded and left, the door closing behind him. No one spoke.

"The suspense is killing me," Violet observed.

Robert gave a bitter laugh and rounded on Mary. "Well, I might as well get straight to it, then. Is it true, what Matthew says? Kemal Pamuk–took…advantage of you?"

There was a round of gasps from the three women. All eyes turned to Mary, who seemed to shrink under the scrutiny. Matthew was half a second from throwing propriety to the wind and reaching for her when he saw her straighten her shoulders and lift her chin.

"Yes, Papa," she answered, in a clear and surprisingly steady voice. Matthew loved her for it. His storm-braver.

And just like that, Robert deflated. He reached out and clutched the back of the nearest chair for support. He looked old and weary. After an uncomfortable pause, he turned to her. A question flitted across his features. "Did you–?" he broke off, tried again. "How did he die? I take it he wasn't found dead in his bed."

"No," Mary said. "He died in mine."

Her words seemed to stab her father. He couldn't meet her eyes. "And how did he die?" he finally asked. "Did this house hide not just a–" but he couldn't bring himself to say it. He skipped ahead. "Was he murdered?" Robert's eyes flickered briefly to Matthew, who quickly shook his head.

Mary took in this exchange. "The coroner said it was a weak heart, Papa," she reminded him.

She didn't have to fill in the rest of the details; Matthew could see Robert putting all of the horrible pieces together and arriving at a conclusion that was probably as close to the truth as anyone outside of Mary could get. Robert turned away and closed his eyes, pain visible in his features and in the white-knuckled grip that he kept on the chair. The room was silent.

"And how, may I ask," he opened his eyes and attempted a normal tone of voice, "was all this kept hidden? There is no way that you carried that man's body all the way back to his bedroom, Mary. The bachelor's corridor is on the opposite side of the house!"

"She didn't do it alone, Robert," Cora said. Her husband's eyes shot to her in shock.

"You helped her?" he whispered.

"And Anna," Cora nodded. "I'm sorry, Robert."

He squeezed his eyes shut again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Cora looked to Mary for help. Mary shifted. "We–I–didn't think you would…understand, Papa."

At this, Robert's eyes opened wide and he turned towards her, letting go of the chair. Pain filled his frame and face as he walked over to where she stood. Matthew watched her not flinch at her father's approach. When Robert reached her, he lifted his hands to her shoulders, his expression both pained and softened.

"I'm so sorry, Mary," he whispered. Matthew felt like he was intruding and he took a step backwards, but he bumped against the sideboard and could go no farther. He did not want to draw attention to himself by moving again, so he remained still, watching this intimate moment between father and daughter. "I have failed you."

Mary's eyes widened and she put her hands on her father's chest. "No, Papa! This was not your fault!"

He expression hardened. "I welcomed that–that _bastard_ into this house," he said. "And I took no notice of his behaviour towards you. I assumed that you knew what you were doing."

"I thought that I did," Mary whispered brokenly.

Robert shook his head. "I'm your father: it's my _job_ to protect you, Mary. I'm so, so sorry."

"This is all very touching," Violet said dryly, "But I must point out that this is the first I've heard of the encounter being against your will, Mary."

Mary gasped. Robert pulled away from her in shock and looked accusingly at Matthew. Matthew stepped forward, chancing a quick look at Mary, whose pale face and wide eyes filled him with a righteous anger to defend her, even against herself. He took in Cora, Violet, and Robert with one swift glance.

"She _was_ taken against her will," Matthew asserted, knowing that Mary still struggled with characterizing her experience in such black-and-white terms. He had no such qualms. "He entered her room uninvited–she still has no idea how he knew which room was hers–she asked him to leave, she threatened to scream–" here Matthew fixed Robert in his gaze, knowing that the earl would understand, "–and Kemal Pamuk told her that _it was too late_, that even if she screamed, a man would be discovered in her bedroom and she would still be ruined. Mary allowed him then to–" Matthew couldn't continue; bile rose up in his throat without warning and he had to force down the sudden urge to slam his fists into something. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath through clenched teeth, then deliberately exhaled. He would finish what he had begun. "He imposed himself on her. Against her will." He opened his eyes again, looking first at Violet, then at Robert, and finally at Mary as he spoke. "It does not matter at that point whether she reciprocated in any way. He took away any real choice she had in the matter, and you–" he was looking at Mary now, his voice dropping in volume, "–you made what little choice you had left to influence _how_ it happened."

She was staring at him with wide eyes. He drew in a ragged breath to still his trembling frame. Another calming breath and the burn in his chest began to recede. He stepped up to her, taking her hands in his. "I love you," he whispered hoarsely. _It was not your fault._

She blinked and swallowed. "I–love you, too, Matthew." Her voice had a rasp in it and she swallowed again.

Matthew heard a sniff across the room and glanced over to see Cora wiping her eyes. Violet, by contrast, was sitting stiffly, holding the top of her stick in both hands and pursing her lips. She met his eyes and gave him the barest of nods.

"I am quite worn out by all of this melodrama," she announced. "I think it's time I retired as well."

"I'll ring for Branson," Robert said, sounding relieved at having something normal to do.

"I think he's taking Cousin Isobel home," Cora said.

"Oh, don't bother with that," Violet said, pushing herself up. "I'll ring for O'Brien instead. I'll stay here tonight."

Robert and Cora exchanged a look over the Dowager's head, but neither put up a protest.

"Don't stay too late, Matthew," Violet said over her shoulder, as she made her way to the door. Robert moved to open it for her. "Your mother needs her rest, too."

Robert snorted softly. Matthew shook his head with a pained smile. "I won't, Cousin Violet."

"Robert. Cora. Good night."

"Good night, Mama," Robert replied. He and Cora turned to face Mary and Matthew before leaving the room as well. Cora's gaze was wet and sentimental. Robert's gaze rested on Mary. "Ten minutes, and then I am sending Carson in to retrieve Matthew. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Good." Robert gave them a curt nod, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second before he and his wife left the room. The door whispered shut behind them and then Matthew looked at Mary.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't realise."

Mary looked as if she were considering some choice words, but after a long moment, she just put her arms around his neck and pulled him close, drawing his head down beside hers. He held her in silence and waited, eventually relaxing into her embrace and resting his cheek against the curve of her neck.

"Please forgive me?" he asked.

"There's nothing to forgive," she murmured, her breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, noticing how warm and wonderful she smelled, and he drew in a deep breath and let it out, releasing the tension of the evening along with it. Mary loosened her grip on him and he straightened, his hands still cradling her back. She smiled up at him. "In fact, that went off better than I ever imagined. Without you and your…interpretation of the facts, it would have gone much worse."

"Without me, it never would have gone off at all," he said.

"I'm glad it did. I'm glad that I'm no longer living in fear of the day that Papa discovers it."

Matthew smiled. "Perfect love casteth out fear."

Mary arched an eyebrow at him. "Your love is perfect, then?"

"No," Matthew replied. "Of course not. But if fear was cast out, I must have done _something_ right."

"I can't argue with such impeccable logic," Mary smirked.

"Then don't," he answered. "Just–" and he kissed her. It was chaste and sweet. She broke it with a sigh and rested her cheek against his collarbone. They stood in comfortable silence for a while, Matthew rubbing small circles on her back.

She eventually pulled out of his embrace, giving him a small peck on his jaw in apology as she moved away. "I'd rather not share this moment with Carson or anyone else," she explained, and he nodded. He took her hand as she led him to the door, and he tugged her back for a slightly more passionate press of lips before releasing her a moment later and opening the door for her to go through. She smiled as she turned away and he felt a satisfied warmth suffuse him.

"Good night," she said, as she showed him to the entranceway. William stood waiting there, holding Matthew's coat and hat. Matthew nodded his thanks to the young footman as he took his things and shrugged into his coat. Mary took William's place, straightening Matthew's coat and brushing off an imaginary speck of lint as he donned his hat. He enjoyed the sensation of this possibly becoming their habit: her seeing him off when he left the house, except then he wouldn't hesitate to kiss her before he went out the door. Here, now, she would never permit it with William in attendance. With a final squeeze of his hand in hers, she let him go.

"Good night," he answered with a smile. He touched his hat and then stepped out into the crisp night air. He was looking forward to the walk home.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

Thanks go to **Lala Kate** and **La Donna Ingenua**, for once again catching some egregious mistakes and some spotty prose. :) Thank you all for your encouragement and for the best wishes for my daughter! She's going to be okay, although it might be a long road. And thank You, Lord, for life and hope and stories. :)


	4. Chapter 4

_4_

Isobel sat in bed, her reading glasses perched on her nose, and realised that she still couldn't remember what the last paragraph was about. She let the book fall to her lap with a sigh and frowned into the middle distance. She looked up an instant later as she heard the front door swing closed and the sound of murmuring in the front hall.

She wanted to rush out and demand that Matthew explain why Cousin Robert had shouted at him, but Matthew would not take kindly to being accosted the moment he arrived home. Isobel smiled to herself and picked up her book. He was not unlike his father in that respect. No, it was best to wait: either he would tell her himself, or she would find out from him tomorrow at breakfast. She just needed to be patient.

She heard footsteps on the stairs: Matthew's, not Molesley's. As she listened, she heard the footsteps draw up to her door. There was a long moment of silence and she raised her eyebrows, then fixed her eyes on her book.

At his soft knock, she said, "Yes?"

Matthew cracked open the door and poked his head in. "Mama?"

"Matthew." She looked over her glasses at him. "Come in."

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I'm sorry to keep you up."

She laid her book aside and smiled up at him. "Not at all," she said, taking off her glasses. "Is everything all right?"

Matthew sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. "In a sense, I suppose."

Isobel frowned. "Whatever could have made Cousin Robert shout at you like that? The engagement is still on, I trust?"

Matthew looked up at her. "Oh yes, of course."

Isobel was relieved. "Then what was it?"

Matthew looked at his hands, which he was kneading, and when he noticed, he stilled them and sighed again. "I don't know if I should tell you."

Isobel just fixed him in a glare of disbelief. "If they're at odds with you, Matthew, I must know. You didn't...do something with Mary that you ought not to have, did you?"

Matthew straightened and shot her a glare of his own. "Mother! Of course not! How could you even–?" He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, then paced around the small bedroom while Isobel watched him. She was just about to demand that he explain himself when he suddenly stopped, put his hands on her footboard, and looked straight at her.

"Mary was raped, Mama."

Isobel closed her eyes, feeling a deep pain well up in her chest. "When?" she whispered, and opened her eyes, her head spinning as she tried to focus on her son. She was safe with her son.

Matthew dropped his head with a long sigh, then straightened and began to pace again, this time more slowly than before. When he reached the window, he put a hand on the frame and stared out into the night.

"Do you remember the Turkish diplomat who died at the big house?" he asked, sounding tired.

Isobel frowned, realised that she was clutching the covers with both hands, and released them.

"Yes," she said. "A Mr...Pamak, was it?"

"Pamuk. Kemal Pamuk," Matthew corrected, the disdain for the man evident in his voice.

Isobel frowned. "What has he to do–" She suddenly froze. "It was him, wasn't it?"

Matthew nodded, still not looking at her. Isobel felt a sudden sheet of cold descend over her as she stared at him. Mr Pamuk had raped Mary. And Mr Pamuk had _died_.

Where had Matthew been that night? Surely he would not–! But Isobel could not imagine Cousin Robert or Carson or anyone else in the house committing such a terrible act either. _Where had Matthew been?_ Isobel wracked her memory but could not recall for certain. She _thought_ he had been home. He had come home with her after dinner that evening and had gone to bed at his usual time, most likely. She had not seen him until the morning–but no, what ridiculousness. He would have had no reason to return to the house that night, unless– She tried to recall the details of that evening. There had been Mr Pamuk and the other gentleman, a nice man, what was his name? Isobel could remember even less of him than she could of the Turkish gentleman. But one thing she remembered clearly:_ Matthew kept looking at Mary and Mr Pamuk._ Her son spent most dinners with the family casting glances at Mary, or sparring with her, if they were seated together. What had been unusual that night was the sour expression on his face. He hadn't liked Mr Pamuk, that much she suspected. But surely Matthew would never–

"You don't seem as shocked as I expected you would be," Matthew observed, and Isobel realised that he was watching her. Her sheet of cold remained and now she stared at him in a kind of horror, her earlier feeling of safety in his presence beginning to pull away. He was suddenly alien to her and she couldn't comprehend it. _Not Matthew!_ her heart screamed. _No!_

But she must know the truth and she must remain calm. Sometimes sane men lost control of themselves in a crime of passion. A crime...

_NO!_

No.

_Do not run ahead of yourself, Isobel._ She swallowed and raised her chin.

"What do you mean?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"You merely closed your eyes," he said.

Isobel frowned, trying to remember her actions since he'd entered the room. She'd closed her eyes after he'd touched the footboard, when he'd said–

She closed her eyes again. _Mary._

Her thoughts immediately went out into the night, across the few miles to the great house, and into the bedroom where she imagined Mary to be at this very moment. She wished she could hold the young woman, tell her that she was not alone, that she was strong and treasured and loved. _Dear Lord, please comfort her..._

Isobel felt the bed shift and then her son's warm hand touched her wrist.

"Mama," he said.

She opened her eyes slowly as she felt him tugging at her hands. She looked down and realised that she was clutching her nightgown tightly against herself, holding the phantom Mary in her arms.

"Mama?"

He was looking at her with those familiar ice-blue eyes, warm and concerned. This was no murderer.

"How did he die?" she asked.

He frowned and dropped his gaze. She waited, no longer afraid of what he would tell her, but dreading what it might reveal about their adopted family.

"They said it was his heart," she prompted.

"It was," Matthew answered heavily. "From what Mary has said, I think his heart gave out during his assault on her."

Isobel's head snapped up in shock at that. "Oh, dear God," she whispered.

Matthew looked at her. "Is that even medically possible?"

"Of course," she said. "Strenuous activity can cause a rupture in a congenitally-weakened heart. It's not common, certainly, but it's not outside the realm of possibility. Oh, how terrible for Mary!"

"Yes," Matthew said. "Mama, let go."

"What?" Isobel frowned at him.

"Your hands. Relax your hands, Mama, you're frightening me."

She forced her grip to open with a gasp. Her hands ached. The urge to clutch at something had passed. She flexed her fingers.

Matthew was still looking at her, worried. "I've never seen you do that before. Are you quite all right?"

The joints in her hands ached. She hoped it was not a worsening of her arthritis. She rubbed her fingers together, massaging them and wincing. Matthew took her hands in his and continued to work at the joints, his larger, stronger hands having a more therapeutic effect. She smiled as she watched him and she leaned forward to plant a kiss on his forehead.

"I love you so terribly much," she said.

He looked up with a smile. "I know. I love you too, Mama. There: how does that feel?"

"Better," she said, stretching her fingers. "Much better."

Matthew watched her a moment.

"You never answered my question," he said.

Isobel looked down at her book and reading glasses. "What question was that?"

"Why weren't you more shocked by what I said about Mary?"

Isobel sighed and met his eyes. "Rape is far more common than most realise," she said.

Matthew frowned. "Truly?"

"Oh, my boy," she said, reaching up to hold the side of his face. "So few men are as good-hearted as yourself and your dear father." She dropped her hand and folded her glasses. She did not expect to return to her reading tonight. "I saw too much of it at St. Mary's." She felt the weight of an age on her shoulders as she remembered. "So many young women, and too many of them wives. Mothers of children. Even grandmothers and young girls. None are exempt."

Matthew sat back and looked horrified. Isobel nodded and looked away. "Even myself."

There was dead silence for several long seconds. She did not think Matthew even breathed. She inhaled deeply and pressed her lips together, then looked at him. His eyes searched her face and she watched him fight to swallow. She reached out to touch his hand, wanting to comfort him. He unfroze at her touch, taking her hand in his and looking at it as if he had never seen it before. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he struggled to find words. He finally looked up at her, his face creased with pain.

"When?"

She had not thought to ever tell him. He had never needed to know before, but if he was to marry Cousin Mary, if the young woman had indeed been put through this trauma, Isobel must prepare him before they wed. She would hate to see her son and his new bride struggle through misunderstandings in the most intimate and joyous part of their married life. She might have the means to avert that struggle merely by sharing a small–albeit painful–part of her past. He must be made to understand.

"He was a colleague of my father's," she began. She trembled slightly as she spoke. She had not told anyone of this since she'd shared it with Reginald, on the occasion of their engagement, more than thirty years earlier. "A trusted family friend. He'd always been fond of me and when I finished my training to be a nurse, he helped me to get my first position at St. Mary's. I was so happy to be at a place where I could dedicate myself to helping women and children, to ministering to the underprivileged and the hurting. It was so much more than mere medicine, Matthew. Their stories, their needs, were overwhelming. I could do so little, but I saw how desperate they were for just a little human kindness, and how much a gentle word could help to heal. It was exhausting and exhilarating and I had found my calling." Isobel laughed. "I promised God I would dedicate my life to serving them."

Her humour vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I wanted to, truly. But–I couldn't stay there, not after–" She _would_ push through this, this tightness in her chest that made it difficult to draw a breath. How strange that it should still be this powerful after so many years, and so many good memories since that day. She closed her eyes and imagined Reginald, although it ached terribly to think of him. She focused on his hands. His dear face had begun to fade from her memory, but she remembered the feel of his hands on her body, his gentle embrace, the way that he would come up behind her as she readied herself before the mirror in the morning. He would hold her close to himself, pressing his cheek against hers with a contented hum. She smiled at the memory. She could go on.

She opened her eyes again and saw Matthew, took comfort in his very real presence. Drawing in a deep breath, she continued:

"He often called me into his office to give me instructions and encourage me, saying that I was making excellent progress. He was very kind, I thought. I had no interest in him beyond a professional friendship, of course. I cared only about helping my patients. I was blind to him." She frowned. "One day, he closed the door to his office and asked for my hand in marriage. I tried to politely refuse, but he was insistent, convinced that I had led him on all along, tempted him even as a child. What sickness was this? To think a child would have ever done such a thing! I tried to reason with him, not seeing the situation I was in, and by the time I did realise it, it was too late. He had backed me into a corner of his office and I was so frightened that I froze at first, too shocked at what was happening to even be able to believe that it was, and at _St. Mary's!_ I tried to fight him off eventually, but he was much larger than I and too strong for me. I was too afraid and ashamed to scream." Isobel rushed on, wanting to be done but knowing that she must finish what she had started. "Afterwards, I asked him how he could ever have loved me if he would do such an evil thing and he spat on me, called me such names as I hope you never hear. He said I was to leave and never return. He would not give me a recommendation; I would never be able to work as a nurse again."

Isobel's eyes were dry and she was proud of this. Her attacker was long dead and she would not give him power over her any longer; he had met his justice in the hands of the Almighty. Vengeance was His. She would think of the man as ill, his soul poisoned, and she would pity him. He owed her nothing. She still bore the scar, but there was no thread of hatred there to continually tug at the edges of the wound and keep it from closing. No, it had closed long ago. She smiled a cold, tight smile and closed her eyes. Her smile turned inward and warmed and she said, _Thank You._

She felt Matthew's hand cover her own and she returned to him, opening her eyes.

"Mama," he said, and for an instant he sounded as he had when he was a child, when he would reach up and touch her face, worried about her and not understanding why she was upset. But he was a man now, and he understood this well enough. There was more to her story, but now was not the time to tell it.

She gave him a smile and squeezed his hand, patted it, and lifted her chin. "I am telling you this because you must know that it may present...problems...for you and Mary. It is very important that you let her take the lead. You will want to lead her and that is right enough–you will be her husband. Eventually, you will be able to. But you must allow her to go at her pace and do not push her if she offers any resistance, no matter how slight. You may need to be very patient. Do you understand me?"

She stared at him intently. She could be more explicit if he needed her to be, but she thought he would be more comfortable if she did not resort to medical terms immediately. Men could be strange creatures about such things. She supposed it had something to do with masculine pride, but whatever the reason, there was no point in pressing him further than he needed to go.

Matthew swallowed and nodded, his eyes wide. "How will I know what to do?" he asked finally, swallowing again.

Isobel smiled. "Trust me, you will. Listen to her; ask if you are uncertain. But I think you will get on very well. I have watched you together."

Matthew pulled a self-deprecating frown and laughed. "I doubt you could have seen much of us getting on well together before last night," he said.

Isobel merely smiled at him. She knew what she had seen. Matthew and Mary might have primarily waged a war of words for the past two years, but their bodies spoke an entirely different language. They were the only two who seemed unaware of it. Isobel had exchanged more than one significant glance with Cousin Violet whilst surreptitiously observing them.

"You will do fine," she said, patting his hand. "Don't you worry. Now give your old mother a kiss and off to bed."

"You'll never be old to me," he said, leaning forward to obey.

"Flattery will earn you nothing," she said, following the familiar exchange and fighting to keep a stern face.

"That's not true," he said, rising with a satisfied smile as she finally lost the battle to control herself and grinned widely up at him. "I get to see this."

She waved him away. "Go, before you embarrass me," she said sharply.

"Too late," he murmured, smug, and stole another kiss. "Good night, Mama." He paused and looked at her. "You will be all right?"

"Yes. Will you?"

He sighed and looked at the wall for a moment. "Eventually."

She watched him walk to the door, so terribly proud of him. "Good night, my son."

He opened the door and gave her a final smile, and this time she saw something in his eyes that tempered it. A man, indeed. Mary would find herself safe with him.

After Matthew had left, Isobel realised that her eyes stung and she wiped at them quickly. She had been immensely blessed by her husband and she was so grateful for Matthew. The experience of being loved by two such extraordinary men quite drove out all the old fears and hurts. She smiled and wiped at her eyes again, quickly setting her glasses and book on the night-stand and hunting for a kerchief to wipe her face. She put out the light and slid down into the bed, pulling the covers over herself and adjusting them until she was comfortable. In this moment, she wished for nothing more than Reginald's arms around her, but she looked inward again and smiled. She knew Who was there, Who always would be, and she knew she could settle into His warm embrace without feeling bereft after she had indulged herself in it. _Thank You_, she thought sleepily as she grew more comfortable. _You have done a beautiful thing._

* * *

_Author's Notes_

Thank you, **Lala Kate** and **Apollo888**, for all the suggestions and challenges you gave me regarding this chapter. You have undoubtedly made it better. :) Lord, thanks for helping me to recognize the good men in my life...it was a journey to reach the point where I could. This story is also dedicated to them. :)

Now...off to Sybil's Ball! I don't think I'm the only one who was disappointed that we never got to see it onscreen. Let's address that properly. :)


	5. Chapter 5

_5_

Evelyn was bristling and annoyed as he watched Bernadette's receding, elegantly-coiffed head disappearing into the crowd in a fit of pique. How had it escaped his notice that she was the most tediously gossipy cat? The gall! To take pleasure in the unfortunate downfall of another person and to think that he would share in it with her! It was positively ugly. What had he found so attractive in his fiancée? Bernadette Semphill was beautiful to look at, certainly, and her family's wealth made his father's mouth water, but the thought of spending the rest of his days trapped with such a woman made his skin crawl. He turned away in disgust; there was no point in pursuing her across the room. He wanted to be out of her company and he found no pleasure in the chatter of those who called themselves her friends. He searched the crowd for a friendly face; surely there must be someone with whom he could redeem this evening.

Ah. Evelyn smiled. Now _there_ was a welcome relief, and she even appeared to be available for conversation. He started towards her and then frowned as he realised the probable reason why she was standing by herself at the edge of the room: the awful rumour he'd just heard about her was obviously making the rounds this evening. His lip curled in disgust again. At her own sister's ball, in her own family's house! It was such a disgrace–not the content of the rumour, but the total lack of breeding exhibited by the guests who had been welcomed here. Evelyn put on a genuine smile when the target of his attentions caught sight of him.

"Mr Napier!" Lady Mary Crawley said, lighting up immediately. "I hope you're enjoying yourself properly. Your fiancée is lovely; quite the catch. Congratulations."

Evelyn kept the smile on his face as he came to stand beside her. "Thank you. I hear that you are to be similarly congratulated! Lady Sybil was very excited to share the news, as was your mother."

Lady Mary rolled her eyes and smiled. "It's Sybil's ball; I don't know why she isn't making every effort to draw all the attention to herself."

Evelyn grinned. "She doesn't have to make an effort."

Lady Mary smiled as she watched her sister on the dance floor. "She's quite the success, isn't she?"

"You're looking lovely as well," he said with a smile.

"It's nice that someone noticed," she responded dryly. "After that much effort, I ought to be stunning."

Evelyn laughed, relieved but not surprised that she had taken his comment in the spirit in which it was intended. It was so easy talking with her. So different from Bernadette…

He pushed that thought aside and looked out across the dance floor, watching the couples move by. Lady Mary's fiancé was dancing with Lady Sybil. They made a handsome couple and he was acquitting himself reasonably well, which was a small surprise to Evelyn, considering Matthew Crawley's humble origins. The man had seemed sensible enough on the one evening that Evelyn had exchanged pleasantries with him, but he hadn't made much of an impression. It seemed unlikely that Crawley would have had much experience with waltzing before now, but what did Evelyn know of him? Lady Mary had accepted his proposal, but everyone knew that it was because of Crawley's position as Lord Grantham's heir. For all that Evelyn liked Lady Mary, he was under no illusions about her motives. She could be warm and amusing in company, but he knew that ice ran through her veins when it came to making a suitable match. Neither of them thought much of the institution of marriage or of the poets waxing lyrical about love. This was a game they each had to play and love had nothing to do with it.

Although given how the game seemed to be turning out for him, even with all the carefully calculated tactics in play, Evelyn was beginning to doubt that being businesslike about the whole matter was a much better strategy. Sometimes he wished the poets weren't just blowing smoke out of their arses. He glanced at Lady Mary. He wasn't in love with her and never had been, but if she'd ever shown the slightest interest in him beyond friendship, he would have courted her quite willingly. They had a shared perspective on the world and could probably have worked quite well together. Perhaps he ought to wait for someone more suitable, someone whom he actually got on with. He frowned as the music came to an end, still watching Lady Sybil and Matthew Crawley, and raised his eyebrows when Crawley immediately went over to Lady Edith and appeared to be asking her to dance the next. There was no hint of boredom or obligation about the man's address, and Lady Edith's smile in response seemed perfectly genuine. How unusual.

"So is this Crawley chap worthy of you?" Evelyn asked Lady Mary with a teasing smile. She smirked at his reference, but then grew serious and an expression came into her eyes that took Evelyn quite by surprise. He couldn't name it, but it sent a pang through him.

"The better question is whether I am worthy of _him_," she replied.

Evelyn stood back and stared at her. "What's this? Has Cupid actually mended an arrow?"

Lady Mary glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "Interesting choice of words. Not 'found an arrow', or 'shot an arrow', or something even more revolting than that?"

Evelyn laughed and then looked back at the dance floor as the music resumed. "A quiver full of broken arrows seemed the best analogy," he replied, then realised how his words must sound and what they revealed about his own situation. He straightened and avoided Lady Mary's inquisitive look. "You didn't answer my question," he pointed out.

"Yes," she said. "To both."

Evelyn raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle.

"Oh, stop," she said. "You're engaged, too."

That was neither here nor there; they were clearly having two separate kinds of conversation on this topic. He had no interest in his own situation.

"I'm surprised he can dance so well as that," he observed, watching Crawley swing by with Lady Edith, who looked truly happy for the first time that Evelyn could recall. "Lady Edith certainly seems to be enjoying herself."

Lady Mary laughed. "She has little enough opportunity."

That was a little uncharitable, but Evelyn let it pass. He'd never understood the relationship between the two sisters and thought it wise not to try.

"He ought to be able to," Lady Mary said. "We practised with him. Mama thought it necessary to ensure that he and Sybil wouldn't disgrace the family." Evelyn laughed. Lady Mary's expression was briefly wistful. "That was an amusing evening: we cleared the great hall after dinner and waltzed round in circles until everyone was dizzy and Papa finally declared that the family's honour was secure." She gave a short laugh and smiled. Evelyn watched this speech with raised brows. Lady Mary, it seemed, truly _had_ fallen in love. And with a country solicitor, a distant cousin, of all the unlikely candidates! Evelyn felt the pang in his chest again and he looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. He hoped that Crawley didn't catch wind of the rumours that were circulating the room about his fiancée; she deserved to be loved.

"Speaking of which, why aren't _you_ dancing?" he asked.

Mary lifted her chin and put on a thin smile. "Oh, I'm just catching my breath." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you inviting me?"

"Of course, Lady Mary," he said, executing a smart demi-bow in her direction, which made her smirk. "Would you care to dance the next with me?"

She gave his extended hand a brief press and then released him. "I would be delighted, Mr Napier."

"That's settled then," he said, straightening up and looking forward to the current set coming to an end: Lady Mary was a lively and engaging partner. He frowned. "It's a shame that there aren't more invitations coming your way," he said. "They don't realise what a treat they're missing."

"Thank for you saying it."

"Every word is true," he said.

She looked at him for a long moment and then turned away. "I think you know why."

He winced, searching her face. "I just heard; I'm terribly sorry. What an awful business."

Her smile was brittle.

"I should never have brought him to Downton," Evelyn said.

"You couldn't have known."

Evelyn shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, I did, a bit." Lady Mary turned, her brows raised in surprise. Evelyn sighed and shook his head. "He had a certain effect on people, and a reputation that lends credence to it all, unfortunately."

"But I do not," she replied sharply.

"Of course not!" he said, and frowned. He was not about to point out that she was quite an accomplished flirt when she wished to be. It had made her enemies, he was certain. If only he knew which one had started this vicious rumour. He might suspect that there was some element of truth in it, but that did not mean that she deserved to be exposed.

She looked away again. "Although I find Austen tedious, I can't help recalling a certain line: 'One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.'"

Evelyn gave a rueful laugh. "And the one would be…?" He expected her to indicate himself, but she surprised him again.

"Why, Matthew, of course."

Evelyn looked across the room, watching the dancers complete the set. As the music drew to a close, he saw Crawley bow to Lady Edith. Evelyn glanced at Lady Mary, curious. "You never gave his name, but I rather suspected him to be the 'sea monster' you once mentioned in your letter."

Lady Mary coloured and ducked her head. "Yes. But it was terribly wrong of me. 'Perseus' is a far more fitting description of him."

Evelyn watched the throng of dancers that were leaving the floor, Crawley's head bobbing among them. Evelyn glanced at her again, lowering his voice now that there was a break in the music. "Does he know about what is being said, then?"

Lady Mary nodded.

"And he still went ahead with the engagement?"

"Yes," she replied.

Evelyn pursed his lips and made an appreciative noise. "Perseus, indeed."

When the next piece began, he extended his hand to Lady Mary, she placed her own in it with a small smile, and they stepped out onto the floor. They swayed into the waltz, her frame firm and her feet light, and he simply enjoyed the sense of movement and the happiness evident on her face. He knew that some were probably whispering about them as they passed, but he couldn't care a whit. He and Lady Mary were friends and he hoped that they always remained so. Intelligent people were difficult to come by and were well worth braving the gossips. The rumours always passed eventually, as another unfortunate soul became the next target. Lady Mary was a true lady, and worth the knowing. He smiled and spun her round the floor.

* * *

Matthew took a sip of his drink and smiled as he watched Mary dancing with Evelyn Napier. They moved well together. She really was a splendid partner. Perhaps she'd dance the next with him. He wanted to spend more time with her, but Cora had cautioned him against taking her out too often, saying that it was just not the done thing. It was such a shame, really: how often did they get the chance to dance together? The feel of her in his arms, her body moving with his, her face aglow, was, frankly, intoxicating. He smiled wryly into his glass and quirked an eyebrow. Perhaps that was why it wasn't done: he did prefer to be in his right mind, especially in such company. He glanced around. Aside from himself and Mother, he wasn't sure that there was another person in the room without a title of some sort. He might be wearing the right clothing and speaking pleasantries to strangers, but what was he doing here? How had he come to be in this position? In moments like these, the sense that his new life was a dream washed over him.

He watched Mary twirl by again, her face serene, and he drew in a deep breath and exhaled. She was always at the center of the dream, drawing him deeper into it. If it weren't for her, he didn't think he would believe in it at all. He'd come to Downton armed and ready to hold the whole lot of them at arm's length, to keep a tight grip on himself and what he valued, and to not let them change him into something he despised. By and large, he had succeeded. Their wealth was overwhelming and their standing in the community was undeniably that of the nobility, but he still found neither feature particularly appealing to him. He preferred a simpler, quieter life. He liked not having an army of servants about, inserting themselves into the intimate details of his life. Being dressed for dinner by Molesley was sometimes convenient, Matthew admitted, but at least the valet had the sense to stay out of the way most of the time, doing more to serve Mother than himself. Matthew was satisfied that he felt himself largely unchanged.

But for Mary.

He was fond of the whole family now and had been for some time, but there was something different about her. In his sappier moments, he considered that perhaps he'd found his soulmate or some such thing. They got on so well together; they seemed to share such an understanding of things that he had only to catch her eye and they would both laugh, or commiserate, or ask a silent question and answer it at once. He hadn't expected such a love to exist, to feel himself so thoroughly understood and to understand another in the same way. Poetry that he'd once read with merely an academic eye now took on a whole new layer of truth when it reminded him of her. A dream, indeed.

He smiled and sipped his drink once more, watching the dancers move about the room. The grand ballroom of Grantham House was quite a stunning sight, with all the women in their silks and feathers, the glittering decorations, and the chandeliers hung above them. He glanced around, but no one else seemed to be taking it in. They either looked bored or were wholly consumed by conversation with their neighbours. He was glad that such an evening was not a common occurrence; his sense of dissociation from it all was quite intense as he admired it with the eye of one unaccustomed to such splendor.

The music drew to a close and his eyes immediately sought out Mary, in the hopes that she might be heading in his direction. She gave Napier a smile and a curtsey and then disappeared towards the doors where Matthew knew the ladies' rooms to be. Ah well, perhaps when she returned, he might ask her to dance again. She would probably reproach him for it and then agree. He smiled to himself and took another sip of his drink, glancing around the room. Sybil had acquired another new dance partner. She seemed to be making quite the impression this evening, and good for her. She was a lovely young woman and deserving of all the attention. Matthew briefly wondered what Mary's ball had been like.

"Ah, Mr Crawley, good to see you again," a voice spoke beside him. Matthew turned and saw Evelyn Napier standing to his left. Matthew nodded.

"Mr Napier."

"Oh, Evelyn, please," Napier said, with a wave of his hand. "I'm as dry as a desert here. Where's a drink when you need one?" He caught the eye of a nearby footman and waved him over, took a glass from the proffered tray. "You?" He lifted another off for Matthew, who nodded and drained the last of his glass. The footman whisked it away and Matthew took the new glass from Evelyn with a smile.

"Thank you. And it's Matthew."

Evelyn took a long swallow and smiled, glancing about the room. "Lord and Lady Grantham always give a lovely party." He smiled at Matthew. "Thank you for lending me your fiancée just now: she really is an excellent partner. It's nice not to have one's toes crushed."

Matthew laughed. "I suspect that's why she's been so eager not to dance with _me_."

Evelyn grinned. "Of course not. She's just maintaining propriety. If she could, she would dance them all with you. She speaks quite highly of you, you know. Oh, and congratulations! It would seem that you brushed up well on your powers of fascination." He quirked an eyebrow at Matthew.

Matthew let out a laugh and looked down for a moment.

"It's jolly good of you, by the way," Evelyn continued.

Matthew looked at him. "What is?"

Evelyn shrugged, took a sip from his glass. "You know: sticking with her despite what happened. First class of you."

Matthew frowned. "What do you mean?"

Evelyn looked at him. "I thought–I beg your pardon." He looked genuinely uncomfortable. "I heard–Lady Mary said that you knew–oh, dash it all. I'm sorry. I should never have said anything."

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a long moment and then Evelyn said, "She is a rare creature; she ought to be loved."

Matthew nodded, still frowning. "She is, very much."

Evelyn smiled and turned to leave. "Excellent. Well. Congratulations again."

Matthew twisted suddenly, his voice a low growl. "What did you hear?"

Evelyn glanced about, wishing for some excuse to flee, but none presented itself. He knew the smile that was pasted on his face was more of a wince. "There's talk regarding…a certain diplomat." He managed not to flinch, just barely, at the immediate flash of anger in the other man's eyes.

"People are saying things about Mary?"

Evelyn relaxed a little. Matthew's reaction indicated that Evelyn's earlier assumption had been correct: Matthew _did_ know something already. Evelyn wondered what, exactly, Matthew knew, though. Despite being a man who hated gossip, Evelyn was intensely aware that he'd stepped directly into sharing it, and possibly with the last person he ought to tell. He silently apologised to Lady Mary and hoped that nothing came of this conversation. A foolish hope, of course. Matthew was still scowling at him. Evelyn put up his hands, waving his glass.

"I haven't been part of all that," he said, his lip twisting. "I just heard about it–unwillingly, I might add–from Bernadette. Semphill. My fiancée."

Matthew did not offer him congratulations. Evelyn was not offended by this oversight. Matthew's face was dark with anger.

"Look, her engagement to you makes the whole matter moot. They'll have forgotten about it by next Season," Evelyn said.

Matthew looked away, his expression still sour.

"I'm sorry I ever brought him to Downton." Evelyn said.

"As am I."

Evelyn sighed. "I thought she could handle herself. She is always so in command, so poised."

"She could handle herself just fine," Matthew snapped. "It was _he_ who took advantage of _her_."

Evelyn's eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. "Oh God," he gasped. "So it's true."

Matthew's stomach dropped like lead and he squeezed his eyes shut. He'd done it again. He'd thought that Napier had already known, given what the man had just said and the friendship that Matthew knew Mary had with him. Matthew realised now that Napier had just played him for a fool. Matthew was out of his depth in such company, having no experience with the intrigues that everyone was clearly accustomed to playing. He suddenly felt ill and the dream dropped away, replaced by the ugliness of this world and all that he despised about it. Who cared a whit for chandeliers and finery when the people here treated each other with such callousness and cruelty? Matthew was just a pawn in their games. Mary was going to tear strips off him for this and he would deserve it. It was no wonder that she was so sharp-tongued and reluctant to reveal her true self: she would have had to be, to survive in this world. His heart twisted at the idea of her being forced to live in such a fashion for the entirety of her life. She was such a warm and generous person when she wasn't afraid. He wished he could carry her away and shield her from it all.

Napier was still standing beside him, looking troubled. Matthew frowned at him, wishing the man would just leave. Hadn't enough damage already been done? Napier turned and smirked at him, flooding Matthew with the sudden desire to land his fist in the man's face.

"Smile and laugh as though I just said something shocking and you realised it was in jest."

"What?"

"Don't look, but we're drawing attention." Evelyn took a sip from his glass and gave a short laugh that sounded forced.

Matthew followed his instructions, but was extremely uncomfortable doing so. He gave Evelyn a tight smile and turned to stalk away. "Enjoy the party, Napier."

Matthew was shocked to feel the man's hand suddenly on his arm.

"Meet me in the small library in ten minutes' time," Napier said, his voice light.

Matthew resisted the urge to shake the hand off; maintaining appearances was important, after all, a voice in his head sneered. Matthew smiled thinly and walked away, not giving an indication of his intentions either way.

* * *

Edith found him near the doors that opened into the entrance hall, where he stood holding his drink and staring at nothing in particular. Couples moved by on the dance floor, but he wasn't watching them. He'd looked for Mary, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Matthew!" Edith said with a bright smile. He shook himself and looked at her.

"Edith," he replied and forced a smile, taking a sip from his glass to hide his discomfort. It didn't work, apparently, because she suddenly frowned at him.

"You look quite pale," she said. "I do hope you're not feeling out of sorts."

"Actually," he said, seizing on the opportunity, "I'm not quite feeling myself." He gestured with his drink. "Too much rich food, apparently." He smiled at his weak jest.

"Oh, well, you should find Carson. He'll see to you. He's amazing at mixing up things for settling one's stomach on an evening like this."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You've had much experience with that, have you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you know. It's always one thing or another. Really, you should go find him. I think he was near the smoking room, last I saw."

Matthew glanced towards where she gestured, trying to recall whether the smoking room was just down the hall from the small library. He couldn't remember exactly; he was not that familiar with Grantham House. "I think I'll do that. Thank you, Edith."

She broke into a wide smile. "You're welcome. I do hope you feel better. Should I give Mama your regrets?" She frowned and looked around. "Where's Mary?"

"I'm not sure," he said.

"Probably in the ladies'," Edith muttered. "Touching up, again."

Matthew smiled. "You can tell Cousin Cora if she asks, but if Carson is half as good as you claim, I'll probably be back to dancing before the evening is out."

"I'll hold you to that," Edith said with a smile. "Perhaps another turn about the floor?"

"Let's plan on it."

"Excellent!" she replied. She really was quite pretty when she smiled so freely. He realised with a pang that Mary was not the only Crawley girl to have been raised among wolves. He gave Edith a quick smile and left in the direction that she had indicated.

* * *

While exchanging pleasantries with Lord Strathairn, Evelyn watched Matthew make his way along the far side of the ballroom and disappear into the hall beyond, heading in the direction of the library. Lord Strathairn moved on and Evelyn walked along the side of the ballroom, reaching the cluster of seated women he'd been aiming for. He smiled as they noticed his presence.

"Oh, dear Mr Napier!" Lady Elisabeth exclaimed. "You really must compliment Bernadette on her necklace; she's been beside herself all evening, sure that you must disapprove of it."

Yes, of course, _that_ was why he was out of sorts, he thought sourly, but he kept the smile on his face. He turned his gaze to his fiancée's neck, which was draped with several long strands of pearls that hung down between her breasts, unusual in their length. He pretended to study it carefully and then shook his head.

"I'm afraid, my dear, that it doesn't quite do you justice," he said. When he raised his eyes, he saw exactly the shocked expression that he had been expecting and his smile widened. "I'm just teasing you, darling," he said, leaning forward to take her hand and draw it up for a kiss. "You look marvellous." Which was true; she _looked_ perfectly lovely. It was just too bad that her beauty was only skin deep.

Bernadette smiled and let him kiss her hand. The other women chattered on around them and she took the opportunity to speak while Evelyn was still bent down. "What was all that about with Lord Grantham's heir? He wasn't put out by that silly rumour about Lady Mary, was he?"

Bernadette's words were light and teasing, but the sharpness behind her eyes belied her tone. Evelyn smiled back, annoyed at her perceptiveness and his own lack of discretion, to have given her the opportunity of observing his conversation with Matthew Crawley. "Oh no, nothing of the sort." Evelyn smirked, straightening. "I merely cast aspersions on his dancing. He was quite sensitive about it."

Bernadette wore a satisfied expression. "He ought to be. He barely belongs here as it is. I don't envy her the next twenty years, at least. It'll be a long wait in–" Bernadette leaned closer, "–_Manchester_, most likely. Can you imagine: Manchester?" She gave a delicate shudder and turned to the others. "What a dirty, smelly place! I wouldn't have accepted him with that prospect before me, even for the whole of the Grantham estate!"

"It's just as well that you were never forced to make that choice, then," Evelyn replied, putting a teasing tone into his voice and playing with her fingers.

"But he has such beautiful eyes!" one of the other women tittered, and the rest of the circle joined in, giggling as if it were an old joke amongst them.

Evelyn repressed a sneer and turned it into another smirk. "Really? I hadn't noticed. They don't seem to be serving him very well if he can't see what's as plain as the nose on his face, eh?"

Bernadette laughed with the others and gave his fingers a squeeze before releasing them. "Well said, my dear. He does seem a bit…" she glanced around at the other women, "…out of his depth, doesn't he? A bit like a stray puppy?" They all laughed again.

"Let's just hope that Lady Mary can keep him clear of the source of these rumours, or she'll be out of a title and an estate before she knows what's what," Evelyn said.

"Oh, I doubt that will be possible," Lady Elisabeth answered, looking at him with a certain strange confusion and then smiling, as if they were sharing a private joke. "She's already failed at it once, hasn't she?"

The group of women laughed and before Evelyn could piece together what had just occurred, Bernadette added, "Besides, with the way that Mrs Namli was carrying on, it's a surprise that more people haven't already heard. Mama had her to tea a fortnight ago and it was her main topic of conversation!" Bernadette smoothed her dress and Evelyn's mind spun at this unexpected intelligence. The Turkish Ambassadress? Why would she be spreading gossip about one of their own diplomats, especially one who was dead? These rumours weren't any more flattering to Kemal than they were to Lady Mary. And how had the Ambassadress come by this information in the first place?

Bernadette was still talking, unaware of Evelyn's distraction. "It was quite tedious, actually. And that woman's hair! Have you seen the frightful mess she makes of it? She really ought to dismiss her maid–or wear one of those dreadful Mohammedan scarves everywhere instead." There was tittering all around.

"I think the Mohammedan scarves are quite lovely and feminine," a familiar voice said, to Evelyn's right. The group of seated women all looked at one another, but none responded to this comment. The new voice continued, seemingly unperturbed: "I wonder if I might steal my brother for a moment?"

Surprised, Evelyn looked at Frankie. She was smiling in a fashion that seemed patently false, to him at least.

Bernadette gave an awkward little laugh. "Of course," she said, with a wave of her hand. She smiled up at him and then leaned away to say something to Lady Elisabeth, and he was promptly forgotten. Evelyn smiled at Frankie as he turned away.

"Thank you," he murmured, following her to a nearby entranceway.

"What was that all about?" she asked, frowning at him. "I've never heard you be quite so uncharitable before. I think Matthew Crawley is comporting himself well, all things considered."

"Oh, he is," Evelyn sighed, picking up a glass from a passing tray. He offered it to Frankie, who merely shook her head.

"So?" she raised an eyebrow as he took a sip. "I thought you'd sworn off talking to her."

Evelyn shook his head. "Bernadette had information that I needed."

"Ah, intrigues. Also not your style, so it must be something that she doesn't realise the importance of. And did you get it?"

Evelyn frowned. "I'm not sure." He focused on Frankie again, watched her give another practised smile and greet someone who said her name as they passed by. How had he never noticed how strained her smiles seemed of late? She'd been more reserved than usual, but Evelyn hadn't thought much of it until now. Matthew's words echoed in Evelyn's mind, growing into a dreadful certainty of something that he'd avoided thinking about. Evelyn was uncomfortable with this possible new awareness of Frankie and he looked away. He suspected that he was partly to blame and he was ashamed for not having had the courage to address it sooner. He needed to speak with her, but now was not the time or the place. "What did you need to steal me away for?"

She frowned. "I have a headache threatening," she said. "Do you think you could prevail upon Papa to leave early?"

Evelyn laughed and looked across the room to where their father stood chatting with Lady Rosamund. "It might take some doing. Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Frankie winced and glanced in their direction. "I'd rather not speak with her, if I can avoid it. She tends to know far too much and to ask questions that I'm not interested in answering. You don't think Papa's thinking of courting her, do you?"

Evelyn frowned and took another sip. "I shouldn't think so. He's never mentioned her as such before." He glanced at Frankie. "Has he said anything to you?"

She shook her head. "No, but they've been quite cosy for nearly twenty minutes now."

Evelyn laughed. "You haven't had anything better to do than to watch them?"

"I've had a headache developing for some time," Frankie replied tartly. "I was waiting for an opening."

"I'll speak with him. But I need to do something else first."

"More intrigues?"

"I hope not. Putting something to rest, rather. I'll only be a few minutes."

"And if Papa asks where you are?"

"I went to freshen up, of course."

Frankie smirked. "Of course. Don't be too long, brother."

He smiled. "I won't." He gave her a brief peck on the cheek. "You're a dear."

"I know," Frankie sighed as he moved away.

* * *

Matthew frowned down at the London street below. The occasional lorry or car drove past and passersby in mackintoshes, their collars pulled up against the mist, hurried through the pools of yellow light that dotted the length of the street. Why had Napier wanted to speak privately with him? Should he just leave instead of waiting for the man? Was this merely another trap? The tight, slightly nauseated feeling in his stomach remained. He wished that he could see Mary, hold her, ask her forgiveness, be done with this evening already. He'd so been enjoying himself, for a short while at least. It was a shame that anything was marring Sybil's evening. She deserved to have her coming out be an unblemished celebration.

He turned when he heard the door latch click, and Napier stepped through. Matthew frowned at the man as he closed the door.

"What's this about, Napier?"

"Am I correct in understanding your earlier comment to mean that Kemal Pamuk forced himself on Lady Mary?"

Matthew glared at Napier. After a long moment of debating how to respond, he decided on the truth. He had no desire to play games and the heart of the matter had already been revealed. "Yes. The extent of the physical coercion is not clear to me, but she said that when she threatened to scream, he told her that it was already too late: if a man was found in her bedroom, she would be ruined. She felt trapped; she then allowed him to do as he wished." Matthew realised that his fingernails were digging into his palms and he relaxed his hands. When would this evil stop haunting them? "What concern is it of yours?"

Napier shook his head and started to pace the room. "It didn't seem consistent with the man I knew."

"He was a liar, then."

Napier's head snapped up. "No, no more than most men." He quickly put out a hand. "I'm not defending him. The story you just told me makes more sense of it all. Physical force, no. Psychological manipulation, absolutely."

"It was still against her will, Napier."

"I'm not arguing that it wasn't! What he did was reprehensible!" Napier stopped pacing, looked agitated, and returned to pacing again, putting a hand to his forehead. "Damn. What a mess."

Matthew watched him in silence. Napier stopped suddenly. "Oh God."

"What?"

"Did she k–" Napier cut himself off, tried again. "Did he die in retaliation?" He suddenly looked at Matthew, as if seeing him in a new light.

Matthew shook his head. "No, he did not. And I had nothing to do with it. I didn't learn of the death until the next day."

"Of course." Napier frowned for a moment. "I was told that he was found dead in his bed, that his heart had given out."

"It had."

"So very odd." Napier looked at him again, but Matthew remained silent, keeping his face blank. He would not be tricked into volunteering any more information. Napier looked into the middle distance for a moment, then refocused on Matthew, his gaze suddenly piercing. "So why are the rumours saying that Kemal died in _her_ bed?"

Matthew felt cold. The rumours were that specific? But how…?

Napier took a step closer to him and Matthew's hackles rose.

"You don't deny it," Napier observed. Matthew glared at him. "There are poisons that can cause heart failure, you know."

"How would you know that?"

"What, did you think I was looking after him for my health?"

"This conversation is over," Matthew ground out, crossing the room to leave. He was not going to stand here and listen to this rat accuse Mary of murder, and if he didn't leave now, he was going to do something that he would regret.

"The real question is: how did this rumour even get started?" Napier asked, frowning past him. "Who was in a position to know of it and would be willing to expose Lady Mary?"

"You expect me to believe that it wasn't you?" Matthew snapped, turning to face the man and clenching his fists.

Napier looked at him, shocked. "Of course it wasn't me! From that day to this I have never spoken one word on the matter! Lady Mary is a dear friend." He clapped a hand over his mouth, then immediately drew it away. "Oh God, she probably thinks it was me as well!" His eyes darted to the door. He quickly looked away again.

Matthew was still glaring at him.

Evelyn bit out through gritted teeth: "I swear to you, it wasn't me who started it."

"But you seem to have no objection to spreading it!"

"Listen to me," Evelyn growled, leaning in. "I'm not doing this for my own amusement. According to Bernadette, the Turkish Ambassador's wife has been telling this tale at every opportunity."

Matthew froze. "The Turkish Ambassador's wife? But how did she–?"

"Exactly," Evelyn said.

Matthew frowned. "But why would she? Being murdered in your bed by a woman isn't exactly a flattering story. Why smear Pamuk, especially now?"

Evelyn had been nodding throughout Matthew's speech and he gave a mirthless smile now. "Think about it: one of their diplomats is found dead in somewhat suspicious circumstances, at a time when tensions between certain countries are at a height. Whatever you might think of the man, he was a skilled negotiator."

"Psychological manipulator."

"Same skills, put to good or ill," Evelyn replied evenly. "Removing him from any potential future negotiations might serve someone's interests."

"He wasn't murdered," Matthew shot back. "He died–" He caught himself, scowled at Evelyn. "He died for his sins. If it was anyone's fault, it was his own. Call it an act of God."

Evelyn narrowed his eyes. "Invoking God isn't a particularly helpful explanation."

"I'll not say more on the topic. But I know his heart gave out on its own, without any assistance from poisons or the like."

"Very well. Let's assume that you're right. Think about it from the Turks' point of view: one of their diplomats died in unusual circumstances, the examination of the body yielded no satisfactory cause of death aside from the symptom of a heart failure, and they are suspicious of foul play because of the political situation."

Matthew looked away, a new chill coming over him. "They can't demand a formal inquiry without reasonable evidence…"

"Not without provoking an international incident," Evelyn nodded. "And even with reasonable evidence, it would need to be ironclad. What would you do in such circumstances?"

"Seek justice through informal channels," Matthew muttered.

Evelyn shrugged. "Justice. Or simply attempt to flush out more information."

Matthew paced to the window, glanced at Evelyn. "Do you think they suspect Mary? Is she in any danger?"

Evelyn shook his head. "I doubt it. She's of no real interest to them. She's merely a conquest: a bored, rich young woman who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, they're searching for a bigger target."

Matthew turned in shock. "Robert?"

Evelyn shrugged. "Perhaps. He's the most likely candidate: he has wartime experience, powerful connections, and would be expected to have the ability to keep such an incident quiet should it occur in his own house." Evelyn caught Matthew's expression and put out a hand. "Don't concern yourself about Lord Grantham. You and I both know he's not capable of such an act. But they don't."

"Is _he_ in danger?"

Evelyn frowned. "I don't think so. They won't try to act without something more than an unconfirmed rumour about his eldest daughter." His frown deepened. "Unless it's been confirmed, somehow, which might be why they're being so bold…but even then, Lord Grantham would need to be directly implicated to be in any danger and from what I've heard, he doesn't even factor into the story."

Matthew debated telling Evelyn that Robert hadn't even known about the event until a few weeks ago, but he held his tongue. Such information would come to light if there were an inquiry. There was no reason to expose Robert's being so effectively kept in the dark for so long: it would imply that he was not the master of his own household. Speaking of which…

"Did you know which room was hers?" Matthew asked.

"What? Of course not. Did you?"

"No, and I still do not."

Evelyn gave him a tight smile.

"So how did _he_ know?" Matthew asked. "How did he find her without alerting anyone else?"

Evelyn shook his head and frowned at the floor. "I don't know."

"Do you think it could be one of the servants?" Matthew wondered aloud. Evelyn's head shot up as Matthew continued: "Perhaps one of them helped him, then gave the information to the Turks? But why would they…?"

Evelyn started to pace again. "Very possibly. You know the household staff: is there anyone who is in financial trouble right now, who would be motivated to do such a thing? Any tensions between the family and the downstairs set?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I don't know the servants _that_ well," Matthew muttered, but it didn't take much effort for a likely candidate to float to the front of his mind. He had no idea if Thomas was having financial troubles, but Matthew hadn't trusted the man from their first acquaintance. And now that he considered the matter, he wondered if Thomas would have been in the perfect position, not only to know where Mary's room was, but to also have been Pamuk's valet. Or William or Carson might have been. Or even Bates. Surely Anna would never have betrayed Mary's confidence. Matthew would need to ask Carson, but he balked at the very thought. He could not start making such inquiries!

"Lord Grantham will want to know about this," Evelyn said. "Should I…?"

"No; I'll take care of it," Matthew said. "Meanwhile, if you could make any inquiries…"

Evelyn nodded, moving towards the door. "Oh, don't worry, I have every intention of doing just that."

"I must confess," Matthew said, giving Evelyn pause just before he reached the door. "You didn't seem particularly surprised by what I said about Pamuk. I thought _he_ was your friend, too."

Evelyn straightened and winced. "He was, but Kemal…I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but Kemal had a reputation. You saw the effect he could have. I knew of it and still I brought him with me." He shook his head. "God, what an idiot I was!" He glanced at Matthew, who was staring at him, a question obvious on his face. Evelyn sighed. "Mary isn't the first person whom I have reason to suspect he…behaved badly with."

Matthew's face clouded over. "There have been others?"

Evelyn shook his head. "I'll not speak of it. I didn't come to trade gossip and I expect not to hear that a word of this has been spoken of after this moment."

"Of course," Matthew replied, but his tone was reserved. He eyed Evelyn and Evelyn shifted uncomfortably. This conversation had become a sort of nightmare, forcing unwanted images into his mind. Evelyn frowned and turned his mind away from the other man's silent inquisition.

He nodded his thanks to Matthew, twisted the knob, pulled the door open–

–Mary stumbled in. The two men stared at her.

She regained her composure quickly and looked at Matthew, holding out what appeared to be a glass of soda-water. "Edith said that you had a stomach upset; I had Carson make you one of his magic tonics."

"Thank you," Matthew replied, crossing the room to take it from her. He looked between her and Evelyn. "I take it you heard everything?"

"I heard enough," she said. She looked at Evelyn. "Please keep me and Matthew informed of any developments. I don't want to worry my father unless absolutely necessary."

"Of course," he replied. He paused, then said: "I'm so sorry, Lady Mary."

She shrugged. "It wasn't your fault."

"Still," Evelyn grasped the doorknob, his hand tightening around it. "I feel some responsibility."

"But not for me, necessarily," Mary replied, her chin raised. Evelyn's eyes widened and then he nodded. He gave them both a tight smile. "Good night."

"Good night," Matthew said. "And thank you."

Evelyn left the room. Mary nodded at the glass in Matthew's hand.

"That wasn't necessary, I take it?"

"Actually," Matthew said, and took a swallow. He closed his eyes. His stomach was still tight and slightly out of sorts. The fizziness of the drink was a welcome sensation.

"So what are you going to take care of?" Her tone had lost its softness.

Matthew's eyes shot open. She'd heard far less of the conversation than he'd assumed, but she'd covered her ignorance with expert ease. He couldn't help but admire her skill. How much should he tell her? He didn't want her to feel unsafe in her own home.

"What did you hear?" he asked.

"Not much," she admitted. "I was looking for you–Edith said you'd disappeared off this way–and I heard voices. Something about information that Papa should know? And why were you talking about Kemal Pamuk?"

Matthew winced. "Mr Napier made a comment in the ballroom," he frowned, "which I realise now was probably entirely innocent, but it angered me at the time and I said more than I intended to. I was trying to defend you."

"Matthew!"

"I know, I know." He closed his eyes for a moment.

"You're making a worrying habit of this."

"I'm so sorry," he said, opening his eyes again. "I was berating myself the moment the words left my lips." He sighed. "Can I ask you to forgive me again?"

Mary pursed her lips. "If I know Mr Napier, it was not _entirely_ innocent, although I would have thought it at least well-intentioned." She quirked an eyebrow at Matthew. "I don't hold you solely responsible. You _are_ somewhat out of your depth with my kind of people."

He gave her a wounded, amused look. "I thought I was improving on further acquaintance."

"Oh you are, with the family. But we're all as gentle as doves, even Granny."

He laughed. "So it would seem."

"With the possible exception of Edith," Mary muttered, although with an air of it being more out of habit than with any actual rancor. "But I would have thought Mr Napier relatively innocuous." She frowned. "I'm surprised at his lack of discretion. I'd thought him a better man than this."

Matthew shook his head. "He was quite insistent that he was not the source of these stories and I believe him. From what he'd heard, they appear to be originating from the Turkish Embassy. The Ambassadress has been spreading the story."

She frowned. "But who told them, if not Mr Napier?"

Matthew blew out a frustrated breath and gestured with his free hand. "We don't know yet. That's why he's going to make inquiries."

"And you're going to do the same from Downton," Mary nodded. "Hence the need to speak with Papa."

Matthew nodded and stared down at the glass in his hand.

"Hmm. Tricky," she murmured.

"Would Anna have any reason to–?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary answered. "She would be just as implicated as I would be if news of the story got out and her name was associated with it. Whoever would spread such stories about me would have no qualms about exposing a mere servant. She would never work again."

"But do you trust her?"

"Implicitly," Mary replied. "She has more than enough to have buried me ages ago, but she's never breathed a word of it to anyone."

"Really?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "There's more?"

Mary pursed her lips with a smile. "Wouldn't you like to know."

He smiled back. "Actually, I would. I shouldn't like to be surprised _after_ we're married."

"Not at all?" Mary took a step closer to him, still smiling. "I should _hate_ to be predictable."

He smiled and leaned towards her.

"In any case," she said, straightening, "we should step carefully. We can't begin accosting our former guests. It may just be a lucky guess on someone's part. I certainly made no secret of my attachment to him during the hunt; one of the other riders may have made a comment that was overheard by someone with an overactive imagination. It's a salacious enough story to have attracted attention."

He wasn't sure if she was taking the suggestion of a servant's involvement seriously enough, but he wasn't going to press the matter right now.

"What do you suggest?" he asked.

"Wait and see if anything turns up," she shrugged. "Don't ruffle any feathers until absolutely necessary."

"But Robert might be a target."

Mary frowned. "Whatever for?"

"On suspicion of murder, Mary. Why do you think the Turks are spreading the story at all?"

"But wouldn't they suspect me, rather? Papa had nothing to do with it. And Mama didn't mention overhearing anything regarding him when she was in the ladies'."

"Napier doesn't think they care about you. He said something about you merely being bored and rich and caught in an unfortunate situation."

Mary smirked. "I suppose I shouldn't be put out at being so easily dismissed."

"Not in this case, no." His smile was twisted.

She nodded at his glass. "You'd best not waste Carson's efforts. I had to take him away from coordinating an army of waiters to mix it."

Matthew laughed and downed the rest of the liquid. "Thank you for this," he said.

"Feeling better?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled. "Not quite yet."

She took the empty glass from him, set it down on a nearby end table, and came back.

"I'm sorry about all this," she said quietly.

"This was _not your fault._"

She frowned. "I know you don't think I bear any responsibility in this, but I know my own heart, Matthew. I was not entirely innocent."

"I know that," he said, putting his hands on her upper arms, "and I'd be the first in line to protest your sainthood." He gave her a lopsided smile, which she returned. She looked down. He moved his fingers to her chin, lifted it. "But aside from your initial flirting, I don't see just cause for censure. Your behaviour was not tacit permission for his actions, however he may have interpreted it. You never wanted any of this, Mary. Don't take on more than your due, either."

"I never thought to put _Papa_ in danger."

"You might not have," he answered, moving his hand back to her arm again and giving the bare skin above her glove a caress with his thumb. "Nothing may come of this. If they had stronger evidence, they would not be merely spreading idle stories."

Mary nodded, looking down again.

"I don't know if I can do this," she sighed.

"Do what?"

"Brave the storm."

He smiled. "You're strong. A storm-braver if ever I saw one."

She looked uncomfortable, not meeting his eyes. "I wonder. Sybil's the strong one: she really doesn't care what people think, but I'm afraid I do."

He regarded her a moment, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. He paused to draw in the scent of her, closing his eyes. They had so little opportunity to be alone together that he did not want to waste another second of it on such conversation. He felt her move and he drew back, opened his eyes. Her face was tilted towards his. She moved and he closed his eyes again, meeting her lips with his own. He thrilled as he felt her hands move around his waist, under his dinner jacket, and he lifted his own hands up to cradle her jaw, spreading his fingers on either side of her neck. The lengths of their bodies barely brushed each other as the hem of her dress rustled against his ankles.

"There you are!" Cora's voice cut in with intentional cheer. They sprang apart and turned to face her. She had a broad smile on lips, but her eyes were sharp. "I've been searching all over for you!"

"Well, you've found us, Mama," Mary observed dryly, smoothing her dress.

"No sneaking off, you two! Your father would be beside himself if he discovered you."

"You're not going to tell him, are you?" Mary asked.

Cora tilted her head down, giving Mary a scolding look. "Not if you come away directly," she said, and glanced at Matthew. He pressed his lips together in a reasonable imitation of a smile and struggled to regain his composure.

"I apologise for keeping Mary, Cousin Cora," he said. "She came looking for me because she'd heard I had a stomach upset."

"I know," Cora smiled at him. "I did the same."

"Oh yes, I'm sure _that_ was why you came," Mary replied. "Thank you for retrieving us, Mama." She started towards the door and Matthew followed her. Cora went out ahead of them.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked Matthew.

"Somewhat," he replied. "Carson's tonic is slowly taking effect."

She gave him a polite smile, clearly not believing that he'd been ill at all.

Matthew couldn't bring himself to care; the taste of Mary still lingered on his tongue. He smiled. He leaned close to her as they walked the hall behind her mother. "Take a turn with me?" he murmured.

Mary shot him a sideways look, amusement sparkling in her eyes. "Of course. I'll dance the next two with you." At Cora's surprised glance back at them, Mary continued: "And if anyone objects, I'll find a less public place for us to _continue dancing_."

"You wouldn't!" Cora exclaimed. "Mary!"

Mary raised her eyebrows and did not reply. Matthew laughed.

"I wouldn't let her," he assured Cora.

Mary shot him a look of betrayal, but he ran a hand down her forearm and curled his fingers briefly with hers. She squeezed back and released him and all was forgiven. Matthew smiled as they stepped into the brightness and celebration of the ballroom.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

**Lala Kate** and **Apollo888** did an excellent job beta-reading this chapter; thank you both so much! And it's thanks to God that I managed to write these intrigues...this is totally the sort of social situation where I felt most out of my depth. :)


	6. Chapter 6

_6_

"Mr Crawley, my lady," Spratt announced. The Dowager Countess turned from her letter-writing in surprise as Matthew entered and gave the butler a nod of thanks.

"Come in. Sit down, my dear boy," she said, laying down her pen. Her interest was piqued by the unexpected visitor. "What brings you here? Nothing dreadful, I hope."

Matthew sat and looked uncertain for a moment. She raised her eyebrows at him. He ducked his head briefly, to hide a smile, she was certain. She did not like to be found amusing, at least not unintentionally so.

"Something amuses you?" she asked.

He raised his head, quickly schooling his features. "You gave me such a strong impression of Mary just now," he said, smiling openly. "Of what I have to look forward to."

She lifted her head, satisfied, and pursed her lips. "But surely that was not why you have come to disturb my letters."

"Ah, no, of course not," he replied, the smile dropping away. "A situation has arisen, and…I'm not quite sure which way to turn."

"Well, obviously, if you've turned to me."

"The matter possibly concerns Robert's safety, but I don't want to worry him unnecessarily. It concerns Mary as well, but I don't want to create an atmosphere of distrust at Downton and make their home uncomfortable for them."

"Dear me! It _does_ sound dreadful," Violet exclaimed, sitting forward. "What is this about?"

Matthew frowned. "Do you recall the matter involving Kemal Pamuk?"

Violet's frowned. "Of course."

"Yes, well…when I was in London I learned that it might not be put to rest just yet."

"Are you referring to the Chinese whispers that were making the rounds at Sybil's ball last week?" Violet asked.

"Yes."

Violet frowned. "I don't see how such idle gossip could threaten Robert or the sanctity of the house. Mary's prospects _would_ be materially damaged were it not for your engagement. As it is, these stories will be entirely forgotten by the new year, I'm certain of it."

Matthew nodded. "Yes. That's not what concerns me. What does is the fact that these rumours seem to have come from the Turkish Embassy."

"Ah," Violet said and sat back, narrowing her eyes. She regarded him a moment. "How did you come by this information? Do you have any reason to think it suspect?"

"I do not."

"And you are afraid that one of the servants might have sold information to the embassy?"

"I have no proof."

"Of course not," she replied. "If you did, you wouldn't be sitting in my parlour."

"But if someone at the house cannot be trusted…"

"Surely Robert can be in no actual danger," she said. "It is unlikely that the Turks will act: if they could have, they would have done so well before now. Do you have more than hearsay on that point?"

Matthew looked down. "Not at this time, no."

"Then let us dismiss that concern for the time being. Now, as to the matter of the servants: I think it highly unlikely that any would betray the family for so small a reason as money."

Matthew looked sceptical, but remained silent.

"It could be one of them, of course," she said, "but have you considered the matter of the other guests? Mr Napier, I think it was, who accompanied the Turk? Or any of the others who went on the hunt?"

"Mr Napier is not under suspicion," Matthew said.

"Was he the source of this intelligence?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

She made a disapproving sound. "He would have been in the perfect position to start such a rumour and Mary slighted him, if I recall."

"She slighted me as well, if you recall," Matthew said.

Violet was unimpressed. "Are you certain that he is not harbouring any ill will towards her? There may be some greater regard on his part. They exchanged several letters, or so my spies tell me."

"No, I do not believe he harbours any strong feelings for Mary. They are merely friends. Besides, he is engaged to someone else."

Violet waved a hand. "That is neither here nor there. One can easily be engaged to one person and be in love with someone else."

Matthew looked sceptical at this as well, but only said, "In any case, I do not believe Mr Napier to be under suspicion."

"Very well. And you have no reason to suspect any of the other guests?"

"They _are_ Mary's preferred suspects at the moment," Matthew said. "But no. And I cannot make any inquiries without alerting Robert first, of course."

Violet winced. "Oh, my dear, you should not even consider making inquiries. Leave them to me. Men are always so heavy-footed about such things." She frowned. "I thought you said you cannot talk to Mary about this? How then can she have an opinion?"

"I…have not broached the topic of the servants with her," he said. "At least, when I tried, she seemed affronted and refused to even consider it."

Violet nodded. "Very well. Since you have asked me, my advice is to tell Robert. I do not think he will be terribly worried by unfounded speculation about a threat to himself, but in any case, he does need to know of it to deal with the staffing matter. If you do tell him of the possible threat, he is quite capable of making inquiries of his own, if he thinks it necessary."

Matthew nodded. "Thank you, Cousin Violet."

She nodded as he stood. "Matthew, I meant to say: your defence of Mary in the Pamuk matter was superb, and I could not be more pleased to have you as a grandson. You will make a splendid earl one day."

Matthew looked taken aback, and then he smiled. "I–thank you. For saying that."

She pursed her lips. "Now off with you. I have business to attend to, and a whole new array of letters to write. Will you ask Spratt to send Simmons in?" She turned back to her desk and muttered, "That is, if she's not out waiting by the gate again."

Matthew paused as he reached the door and frowned. "I didn't see anyone by the gate when I arrived," he said.

Violet waved him away. "Never mind about that. Good day." She turned again. "Oh–will I see your mother for dinner tonight?"

Matthew's eyebrows shot up. "I don't know. She didn't mention anything to me."

"Only, I think I might take the car into the village and I might not be back in time to receive her properly."

"Should I tell her you want to cancel?"

"Oh no," Violet replied with a smile. "She won't be bothered if I'm not ready to receive her in all my state. I just wouldn't want her to think that I've forgotten our appointment, is all."

"I'll relay the message," Matthew said dryly, opening the door.

"Very good of you." Violet bent her head over her desk again, dismissing him.

* * *

"Mr Crawley, my lord," Carson said, standing aside as Matthew walked into the library. The butler left and closed the door behind him.

Robert looked up. "Ah! Matthew. Excellent. I just need a moment." He returned to the sentence he'd been writing, finished it, and set down his pen, capping it as he did. He pushed the papers back into his portfolio and rose. "Jarvis tells me that they've made good progress on the Farnsworth cottage: let's stop by there this morning."

"Fine with me," Matthew said. He was holding his cap and Robert noticed that he was twisting it slightly, which made Robert frown as he walked towards Matthew.

"Is there something the matter?"

"There might be. Robert, there's something I need to tell you."

Robert came to stand in front of him and frowned. "Nothing's amiss between you and Mary, is it? I'd wondered why she'd come home early. I thought perhaps it was to see you, but you haven't been about any more than usual."

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "No, there's nothing amiss…at least, not that I know of."

"Ah, well, never mind that, then." Robert smiled, gesturing towards the doors that opened onto the lawn. "What is it? Can we walk and talk?"

Matthew frowned. "I thought–" He swallowed. "You might want to speak with Carson after what I have to tell you."

Robert paused, concerned. "What's this about?"

Matthew straightened his shoulders. "While in London, I learned that there are some disturbingly accurate stories circulating about…about Mary and Kemal Pamuk."

Robert narrowed his eyes. "Cora mentioned something about this several months ago, but she said that the rumours were vague. 'Disturbingly accurate', you say?"

"Yes. Very much so."

Robert frowned. "I thought the rumours then to be merely malicious gossip, taking advantage of an awful situation. How could anyone have learned of more specific details now?"

"That's what I wondered," Matthew said. "From my inquiries, it appears that the story is originating from the Turkish Embassy. The Ambassadress herself is spreading the tale."

Robert paced. "No wonder she came home early!" He frowned. "Although, it's not at all like Mary to run from such a thing. Fleeing would only serve to give the appearance of confirming them."

"I don't think she left London because of the stories." Matthew said, glancing away.

"But surely she must know of them!" Robert growled, putting a hand on his hip. "This is exactly what I was afraid of."

"What does it matter?" Matthew asked. "We'll be married soon."

Robert glanced at him, gave him a tight smile, and nodded. "True enough. The Turkish Embassy, you say? What concerns you, then, if it's not Mary's reputation?" He dropped his hand and approached Matthew again.

"Your safety."

"Mine? What have I to do with it?"

"Evelyn Napier thought–"

"Napier!" Robert scowled. "He probably started the stories in the first place."

"I do not believe so," Matthew said. "I gather that he still has some formal role in the diplomatic arrangements, although I do not know what it is. He is concerned that the Turks suspect murder and are trying to retaliate, or at least get more evidence by seeing what new stories might emerge. Tensions remain over the issue of Albania. Pamuk was influential in the negotiations; they probably think that someone was trying to remove him from the talks and arranged for his murder."

"And I would be the most likely suspect," Robert muttered. He looked at Matthew. "Did you assure him that I had nothing to do with it?"

"I didn't need to. He seems to have a good enough opinion of you to hold you above suspicion already."

Robert gave a short laugh. "Not to mention that I was kept in the dark by my own family for more than a year."

Matthew did not respond to that.

Robert waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not concerned for my safety. If they had anything to accuse to me with, they would have done so by now."

"That's what Cousin Violet said."

Robert nodded, then glanced at Matthew, amused. "You approached Mama first."

"I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily. I didn't know where else to turn."

"Obviously," Robert replied. Matthew smiled at the floor, then looked up again when Robert spoke. "So the real question is: did the Turks just make an unbelievably lucky guess, or did someone share privileged information with them?"

"Exactly." Matthew looked pained. "Hence the possible need to speak with Carson."

Robert drew in a breath through his nose and straightened. "You think it was one of the servants."

"Or it might have been one of the other riders who joined the hunt that day."

"But none remained for dinner, nor stayed the night, save for Mr Napier," Robert squinted as he recalled that evening. He'd already gone over what few memories of it he had; nothing stood out now that had not occurred to him before.

"So…I wondered: how did Pamuk find her room?" Matthew asked. "How could he have discovered it without rousing anyone else? He must have had help."

"But it does not follow that whoever helped him–if someone did–would also start spreading tales about it."

"Yes, but that person would be in a position to know the truth of Pamuk's death," Matthew said. "Outside of Mary, Cousin Cora, and Anna, of course."

"It couldn't be Anna."

"I agree, and Mary is quite convinced that it isn't."

"She hasn't _asked_ her, I hope!" Robert looked horrified.

"No!" Matthew said quickly. "No one's been approached, outside of yourself and Cousin Violet."

"Good." Robert frowned, then said to himself, "But there's no reason why one of the servants would betray the family! They are well-paid, well-treated."

Matthew looked as though he were about to say something, but he held his tongue. Robert frowned at him. He hated this sort of business, creating an air of distrust in the house. They could only be comfortable in their home if they were confident that all who lived here were trustworthy…but not all necessarily were, Robert thought sourly. He strode across the room to ring the bell, then returned to Matthew.

Carson appeared, glancing between the two men. "You rang, my lord?"

"Yes, Carson, would you come in, please, and close the door?"

Carson nodded and strode towards them as the door swung closed.

"Carson, do you remember the night we had that Turkish diplomat stay with us?"

Carson frowned. "I do."

"And do you recall who was valet for the diplomat that night?"

Carson paused for a moment, then said: "It was Thomas, I believe. Bates saw to you, William saw to Mr Napier, and Thomas saw to Mr Pamuk. Thomas was quite distraught the next morning, after finding the gentleman. Why these questions, my lord?"

"Did Thomas mention anything out of the ordinary?"

Carson frowned. "Other than that the gentleman was dead?"

"Yes, other than that."

"Not that I recall. He was quite shaken. I've never seen him so unlike himself, to be frank."

"Do you know of any special…connection…between Thomas and Mr Pamuk?" Robert asked. He and Carson both raised their chins in silent understanding and then Carson frowned and shook his head.

"No, I do not."

Matthew watched them, also frowning, but said nothing.

"Thank you, Carson. That will be all."

"Do you wish to speak with Thomas?"

"No. And we know of nothing that he has done wrong. He is not to be treated any differently."

"Of course, my lord." Carson inclined his head briefly and then strode out of the room. Robert looked at Matthew, who was watching Carson's receding form, still frowning.

"You do not like Thomas," Robert observed, after Carson had left.

Matthew's head snapped around. "I neither like him nor dislike him."

"But you do not trust him."

Matthew sighed. "I don't know what to believe. I will not judge him without certain proof."

"Very good," Robert said. "Well, I consider this matter closed. Thank you for informing me of it." He smiled and strode towards the doors leading out onto the lawn. "Shall we go find Jarvis and take him to task about his progress?"

Matthew laughed and turned to follow him. "Of course not. I'm sure he's making fine progress."

"We'll see," Robert grinned and stepped outside. "Pharaoh! Pharaoh! Come here, boy! Pharaoh!"

But as he strode across the lawn with Matthew behind him, Robert frowned. Matthew had been right to raise the issue of Mr Pamuk's troubling knowledge. Thomas might have been involved, but without more evidence, Robert was reluctant to confront him. Doing so might become unavoidable, however: the circumstances were deeply unsettling. Mr Pamuk could not have caught a stray glimpse of Mary emerging from her room before dinner, or when they both went upstairs to wash after the hunt: the architecture of the house purposely did not allow for such a happenstance.

Mr Pamuk _had_ been able to discover her room, however, without alerting someone else to his presence. Such an oversight would have required a serious lack of coordination amongst the servants, and that was of deeper concern. Guarding the family's privacy when guests were in residence was a key aspect of Carson's job. What was the point of assigning valets to male guests if they weren't being managed properly? Normally this management of the guests occurred with such surreptitious ease that Robert gave it no thought, but some slip, some lapse in vigilance, must have occurred. Perhaps it was simply a matter of reiterating the protocols with Thomas and William and the maids.

This situation required further discussion with Carson, but not with Matthew present. Matthew would not be made privy to such arrangements until after he and Mary returned from their honeymoon. If Mary was able to convince Matthew to move into the house, that is.

"Ah!" Matthew said with a laugh. "Eau de wet dog!"

Robert glanced at Matthew and then followed his gaze across the lawn. Pharaoh was just then bounding up to them. When the dog arrived, he stopped and shook himself, sending a fine spray of droplets in every direction. Robert laughed and watched Pharaoh dash around them and then dart away again. He squinted across the grounds and saw Barnard coming over the hill from the lake with three more hounds on his heels.

"He must have taken them for a dip in the lake," Robert mused with a smile. "I mentioned to him this morning that Pharaoh could use a bath."

"Had he gotten into something?"

Robert grinned. "Something quite fragrant, apparently, as it prompted a comment from Cora."

"It sounds serious indeed," Matthew said with a grin.

"It was," Robert said with a smile. "A tip: keep your wife happy."

Matthew chuckled. "You make it sound like a challenge."

"It is," Robert said. "Every day. But it's worth it."

Matthew smiled and nodded. "I look forward to it."

"Good." Robert watched Pharaoh run back to greet his fellows and he whistled for the dog again, giving Barnard a brief wave as the gamekeeper veered off towards the stables with the other dogs in tow. "Farnsworth Cottage, then," Robert said briskly as he watched Pharaoh return to him. "Now what were you saying about laying new sewer lines? Jarvis said that the plumbing seemed in fine order."

Pharaoh trotted up alongside him and they continued across the lawn, discussing the modernisation of the unoccupied cottages, as Matthew argued for investing more vigorously in the future and Robert listened with only half an ear, his mind occupied with how he would approach the unfortunate but necessary conversation with Carson.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

Thanks for the latest round of invaluable beta help goes to **Lala Kate**, **Apollo888**, **Audrey C**, and my friend **Jean**. They caught _so many_ embarrassing mistakes. You guys make me look good! :) As always, thanks to my family and friends for their support, and to God for teaching me to be patient. Again. :-D


	7. Chapter 7

_7_

Robert felt a strange sense of timelessness when he stepped inside the servants' entrance, quietly closing the door behind him. The hallway was empty, and aside from an unfamiliar item or two that someone had left behind, it looked so exactly like he remembered it from his childhood that he paused a moment to take it in. He half-expected Little to step out and smile fondly at him and offer him a peppermint, but then Robert blinked and remembered that the old butler had passed away more than thirty years earlier. Strange that the place should feel so…unchanged. But he never came down here, and Carson had never mentioned a need to update the facilities, and there it was.

He started to go down the short flight of steps but then stopped himself, remembering, and frowned down at his shoes. He blew out a breath and bent down to quickly unlace both of them before straightening up again in relief. He gingerly pried them off and left them on the landing. Bates would bring them up later.

He started down the steps again but was pulled up short by a pair of huge brown eyes set in a pale, elfin face. She was tiny and only vaguely familiar, as he'd had no reason before now to speak with her or really even look at her. He put on his warmest smile, which seemed only to make her eyes widen further.

"Daisy, is it?" he asked gently, acutely aware of how unexpected his presence was below stairs. The girl nodded quickly in wide-eyed silence. "You're the kitchen maid, is that correct?"

She gave a brief nod, swallowed, and made a sudden bob, looking down.

"Yes, Your Lordship." Her voice trembled.

He put out a hand to catch her eye and encourage her to look up at him again. "You're doing a wonderful job, you know," he said, and her eyes shot up to his in shock. "Thank you for making sure all the rooms are warm for us in the morning. Lady Grantham very much appreciates it, as do I."

Daisy's wide-eyed stare slowly morphed into a very tentative almost-smile before she quickly looked down again. "Thank you, my lord," she said faintly.

"Is Mr Carson about?" Robert asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.

Daisy glanced nervously to the side and started to turn around, but then seemed unsure whether she ought to turn her back on him and so she stopped moving, instead throwing out her arm in a quick gesture towards the hall behind her, before bringing her hands back together to clasp them tightly.

"I…think so, Your Lordship," she said.

He smiled at her and opened his mouth to ask for further directions.

"Lord Grantham!" Mrs Hughes said, coming briskly down the hallway. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Mrs Hughes," he said, slightly relieved to no longer be addressing someone who was so clearly frightened by him. Proper respect was his due, of course, but he never wanted to engender fear in his servants. "I'm looking for Mr Carson. Where might I find him?"

"He should be back upstairs shortly," Mrs Hughes said, drawing up beside Daisy. "Why didn't you just ring for him or send someone down? Is something the matter?"

Robert glanced sheepishly behind him and gestured towards his shoes. "I'm afraid I wasn't paying as much attention as I ought to have while I was out and I stepped in something that Pharaoh had just left behind." Mrs Hughes raised an eyebrow, but smiled. "I didn't want to make a dreadful mess in the entranceway."

"Next time, my lord, feel free to make a dreadful mess in the entranceway. That's what William is there for."

"I know…" Robert said, glancing past her, and noting with some amusement that several heads suddenly disappeared back into doorways and behind corners. "But that's not the only reason I came in this way. I was hoping to speak with Mr Carson without being disturbed."

"Ah," Mrs Hughes said. "Of course, my lord. If you'll just follow me. Daisy, go fetch Mr Carson. He's in the back hall."

"Yes, ma'am," Daisy said, scurrying to obey.

"That was very kind of you," the housekeeper said, as he followed her down the hallway towards the butler's pantry. "What you said to Daisy."

"Every word is true," he said with a smile.

Mrs Hughes glanced at him with a pleased expression. She rapped on the closed door to Carson's pantry and, hearing nothing, pushed it open with one arm, then stepped back to let Robert in. The room was much smaller than he remembered it being.

"Mr Carson will be with you right away, Your Lordship," Mrs Hughes said. "If you'll just wait here."

"Of course," Robert nodded, continuing to glance about the room, taking in the open ledger on Carson's desk, along with several other items that Robert didn't know the exact use of. He bumped his knee into a chair and stepped back. Sometimes it was easy to forget that such a room existed in the house, and that it was entirely normal for people to move about in a space so cramped. Robert frowned, glancing around for a moment, and then he settled himself in the chair to wait.

* * *

Carson emerged from the bathroom to find an agitated Daisy standing in the hallway.

"Daisy?" he said with a frown. "What is it?"

"Mr Carson, sir, His Lordship is waiting for you!"

Carson strode out. "Thank you, Daisy."

"Sir–" she said, hurrying after him.

"Yes? What is it?" He paused and turned to frown down at her. "I can't keep His Lordship waiting."

"That's just it, sir: he's in your office."

Carson stared at her in disbelief. "My office. Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham and Viscount Downton, is waiting for me in the _butler's pantry?_" He quickly turned on his heel and strode past Daisy as she hurried out of his path. "Why did no one inform me before now? How long has His Lordship been waiting?"

"Well, Mr Carson, sir, you were in…" Daisy gestured helplessly towards the bathroom.

Carson straightened and nodded as he walked. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Daisy," he said.

She gave a quick nod and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Mrs Hughes was coming towards him.

"What's this about?" he asked quickly, lowering his voice.

Her face contracted. "I don't know. His Lordship mentioned not wanting to be disturbed. I'm off to find Mr Bates. He'll need to look to His Lordship's shoes. They're covered in dog droppings."

"Ah," Carson said with a grimace, noticing the faint, unpleasant aroma just then. "Have someone go fetch Mr Bates immediately. I'd like you to remain nearby."

"Certainly," Mrs Hughes said. "If you need anything, just look out."

Carson gave her a tight smile. "Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

"Good luck," she whispered as he passed her, and he smiled. The smile dropped immediately from his face as he drew up to the door.

* * *

Robert glanced up when Carson appeared in the doorway. The butler stood stiffly for a moment, glancing between Robert and the desk, and then Carson entered the room and closed the door behind him. He crossed to his desk and remained standing beside it.

"How may I be of assistance, Your Lordship?"

Robert waved him towards the chair behind his desk. "Sit, please, Carson. This might take some time. Are you free?"

"Of course, my lord." Carson frowned and sat, stiffly. He closed the ledger and set it aside, then rested his elbows on his desk and regarded Robert with a look of concern. "I take it that our conversation this morning was not, in fact, over?"

"No," Robert said. "But I did not think it appropriate to continue with Mr Crawley present."

Carson sat back and nodded. "Is this about terminating Thomas's employment, my lord?"

"Not exactly," Robert said. He paused and frowned, looking at the ledger that had been set aside.

Carson cleared his throat and asked in a quieter voice, "Is this about terminating my employment?"

Robert looked up at him sharply. "What? Of course not! Why would you even think that?"

Carson looked down briefly before meeting Robert's eyes again. "I overstepped; please forgive me."

Robert grimaced and glanced at the door. "No, this is my fault. I'm sorry to have worried you by coming down here instead of waiting upstairs," he said. "I've just been…distracted." He frowned again and sat forward. "The thing is, Carson, I believe that a serious oversight has occurred–perhaps intentional, perhaps not–and it must never happen again."

"My lord?" Carson's brows had drawn together in a fearsome expression.

"You know that your role, and that of the footmen, is not merely to serve in the daily concerns of the household."

Carson's face was dark. "Yes. If I may be so bold, my lord, what is this about?"

Robert frowned. "Do you recall my altercation with Mr Crawley before the family left for the Season?"

"I do. But Mr Crawley does not pose a threat, surely."

"No. No, he most definitely does not; quite the opposite, in fact. I was in the wrong that evening."

Carson's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.

"You see, something…terrible…happened to Lady Mary in this very house, and because she was afraid, she hid it. She hid it from the entire household. From me. And from you. It was Mr Crawley who informed me of it and I responded…poorly…to the news."

Carson looked down at his desk. His hands were tightly clasped, his knuckles white.

Robert frowned. "You do not seem surprised," he said in an icy tone.

Carson finally met his eyes. "I had hoped it was not true," he said.

"You _knew?_ And you _neglected to tell me?_" Robert sat forward in his chair, furious.

Carson swallowed hard. "I thought it merely a scurrilous rumour," he said quietly. "Lord Flintshire's valet wrote me. I tried to find the right moment to tell you, but–"

"I don't want to hear your excuses," Robert snarled, getting up and glaring down at his butler. His trusted, right-hand man. "How dare you!"

"–my lord," Carson said, rising slowly. "I told Her Ladyship and she instructed me not to say anything to you. She indicated that she would tell you herself."

Robert glared at Carson, his jaw working.

Carson swallowed and looked down. "Saying it...made it seem more real. I didn't want it to be true," he said in a near-whisper.

Robert gave a heavy sigh and looked away. He was not unaware of Carson's attachment to Mary and of hers to the butler. In some ways, Robert wished–but that was neither here nor there. He frowned at Carson's desk, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. This oversight was his, as well. They had all failed her.

"Mr Pamuk," Robert lifted his eyes to Carson's, "assaulted her on the night of his death."

"No…" Carson's voice was a pale shadow of its usual strength. He sat, seemingly half-unaware of his actions. Several long seconds later, his eyes focused on Robert again. His face was full of questions, but he did not speak.

Robert drew in a deep breath, the sick feeling settling in him. He sat down as well. "Mr Pamuk died in her bedroom, not in his own."

"He...assaulted...her?" Carson repeated. "Did she...?"

At the renewed look of questioning shock on Carson's face, Robert said quickly, "He died of a heart attack, as the coroner said."

Carson nodded slowly, composing himself with difficulty, and then his eyes narrowed. "But the bachelor's corridor is on the opposite side of the house!"

Robert nodded. "She had help: Anna…and Her Ladyship."

"Anna!" Carson said, his expression thunderous. "Why did I never hear of this from her?"

"She was following Lady Mary's and Her Ladyship's instructions, presumably," Robert replied, not wishing that Anna should bear any repercussions for her complicity. He regarded the maid's loyalty very highly, in fact.

Carson seemed to recognise this, for he gave a brief nod.

"So," Robert said. "Let me come to the point: Mr Pamuk was somehow able to find Lady Mary's room without rousing anyone else, which means that he knew which one is hers."

Carson stood up. Robert looked up at him in some surprise.

"I oversaw the management of Mr Pamuk and Mr Napier personally, my lord," Carson said. "Each time, I remained in the great hall and ensured that both Thomas and William properly escorted the gentlemen to their rooms, well after Lady Mary had gone upstairs. I gave precise instructions as to the timing of their coming down to dinner and their retiring. William and Thomas both returned at the expected times and gave satisfactory reports."

"Sit down, Carson, please," Robert said, holding a hand out. "I am not here to accuse you of neglecting your duties."

Carson frowned, then sat with obvious reluctance.

"I am also not here to accuse William or Thomas of neglecting theirs," Robert said. "My aim is not to terminate anyone's employment unless absolutely necessary. It is always my hope that all my employees will remain at their posts for as long as they wish and as long as we are able to provide for them."

"My lord," Carson said.

"I am here because _something_ went horribly awry during the visit with those two gentlemen, and we must discover what it was, because what happened _must never happen again_."

"Absolutely," Carson replied. "And if the error was on my part, I will tender my resignation without protest and leave immediately."

"Let's not go that far yet," Robert said. "I would hate to lose you."

"But you–your family–_Lady Mary_–deserve someone in this post who can do their job _properly_." Carson shuddered. "To think what might have happened!" He held up a hand. "I do not wish to speak ill of the Turks, my lord, but inviting foreigners into the house always puts me a bit on edge."

Robert gave a mirthless smile. "That's understandable, of course. The fear of the unknown."

"And it was perhaps justified, in this case," Carson said darkly.

"Unfortunately, this particular scourge can be found among the English as well," Robert frowned.

"Only too true."

The two men sat a moment in frowning silence and then Carson looked up at Robert.

"How do you wish to proceed, my lord?"

Robert wanted to stand up and pace as he thought, but the confines of this room would not allow for that, so he forced himself to remain seated.

"You say that you oversaw the gentlemen being escorted to their rooms?" he asked. "And that there was a precise timetable for when each guest and each member of the family was expected to be ready for dinner?"

"That is correct."

"Do you have that timetable at hand?"

"I do," Carson, quickly pushing back in his seat and pulling open a drawer in his desk. He bent and flicked quickly through his papers until he made a sound of satisfaction and pulled out a small sheaf that was bound together with removable brass fasteners. He turned it around so that Robert could read its contents and he laid it on the desk between them. Robert picked it up.

"This is the standard procedure when the number of gentlemen are matched or exceeded by the number of male servants," Carson said. "I do not have a specific timetable of that particular night. To my knowledge, however, this plan was followed to the letter."

Robert scanned over the times, the delays built into the process, the interleaving of the events, and the coordination points between the servants. He admired the cleverness with which it was put together, the servants' tasks interlocking so seamlessly as to make each guest and the family feel as though they were not, in fact, being very carefully managed. He nearly chuckled to himself as he recognised certain patterns that his valet had always followed, and that Robert had never given particular thought to before. But there it was, laid out before him in precise and careful detail. It had clearly been designed by someone with a far more disciplined mind than himself. He flipped through a few pages and realised that the manual contained further instructions for what to do in the case of certain key events going awry, each under different conditions. There was no way that he could read through this and make sense of it well enough to find errors in the process, at least not without spending several weeks making sure he understood it first, and walking the halls with a stopwatch, most likely. This manual was clearly the result of generations of butlers and footmen pooling and refining their knowledge.

He laid the manual down on Carson's desk. "It's very detailed," he said.

Carson gave him a brief, wry smile. "As it must necessarily be," he replied, taking it back and frowning down at it. "I always note deviations each night in the log." He set the manual aside and reached to the side of the surface of his desk, drawing out a leather-bound tome from a short stack of similar books and laying it open in front of him. He flipped back through the pages until he found the one he was looking for and he drew his finger down the entries. He scanned it again and then made a short humming noise.

Robert sat forward. "Is there something?"

"There might be," Carson said. "Or there might not."

"What is it?"

"I do not wish to imply that the evidence is very strong," Carson said carefully.

"What is it, man?" Robert asked impatiently, sliding to the edge of his chair. If there was something–

"It's only that I noted that Mr Pamuk rang for a valet nearly an hour after I had thought him well settled in his room," Carson said, sitting back with a frown. "We were just finishing up the silver from dinner. Strangely, Thomas volunteered to go, now that I think of it."

"Why is that strange?" Robert asked. "I would think that admirable."

"Oh, it is," Carson said. "It is just not Thomas's usual approach. Normally, I must direct him to do it, and more than half the time, it is William who reports back that the task has been done."

Robert frowned.

"Oh, that's not of particular concern, my lord," Carson said. "It is common for the senior footmen to be called away by a member of the family or a guest and to delegate a task to the junior footmen. In fact, it is encouraged, to a limited extent. It helps to maintain the hierarchy and allows our more experienced staff to tend appropriately to the needs of those we serve."

"But more than half the time?" Robert asked. "Does that qualify as a 'limited extent'?"

"It is not worrying to me," Carson repeated. "Thomas is very skilled at his work."

"That he is," Robert acknowledged with a nod. "I just sometimes wonder whether his heart is in the right place."

They exchanged a meaningful glance and Carson sighed. "Yes, well, as long as the quality of his work remains excellent, I see no reason to call him to task."

"I quite agree," Robert said.

"But the fact that Thomas volunteered…" Carson murmured.

"It seems an admirable thing, especially if it was as late at night as you indicate."

Carson nodded.

"So what is the concern?" Robert asked.

Carson spoke carefully. "You asked me earlier today if I knew of some special connection between Thomas and Mr Pamuk."

Robert lifted his chin. "And you said no. Was that merely for Mr Crawley's benefit?"

"No," Carson replied. "I know of nothing between them. But there could very well have been an arrangement."

Robert nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "Perhaps we ought to speak with Thomas. He likely has a satisfactory explanation for the whole affair, but nonetheless, hearing his view of that night would at least put my mind at rest."

They exchanged another glance. _Or it would confirm their suspicions._

Carson rose and stepped to the door, opening it. A moment later, Thomas appeared in the hallway outside. It was a surprisingly quick response, but then Robert supposed that news of his presence below stairs had spread throughout the house and the servants were on high alert, should he request anything. And of course they were curious about the odd business of his presence in the first place. Robert sighed. He should have followed the protocols expected of him; his place in the house was no less structured than theirs. Even if there was no formal discipline levied against him when he varied from his usual place, there were still consequences for his actions. Now, whatever happened with Thomas, it was practically public knowledge–the very opposite of what Robert had intended when he tried to meet privately with Carson. Now it was even more imperative that Thomas not be unjustly accused. A quiet dismissal was not possible at this point.

Robert had risen when Thomas entered the room. After closing the door behind the footman, Carson moved to stand beside his desk. Thomas's eyes had flickered nervously over Robert's face when he first saw him, but now his features were composed and his eyes were fixed on Carson.

"How might I be of service, my lord?" he asked, and looked at Robert.

Robert felt a strange chill when he met Thomas's eyes and he glanced quickly at Carson.

"I'll not bandy about," Carson said. "Do you recall the evening before Mr Pamuk's death?"

A flicker of something–was it fear?–shot through Thomas's eyes before his expression became a cool mask again.

"I do," he said.

"Did anything out of the ordinary occur?" Carson asked.

Thomas frowned and looked to the side, an expression of apparent concentration on his face, before he looked back at Carson. "I can't recall anything offhand," he said. "Can you be more specific, Mr Carson?"

"Certainly," Carson replied. "According to the logs, Mr Pamuk rang at 11:06PM and you attended him."

Thomas frowned, then nodded slowly. "I think…that's right. Yes, I did, sir."

"Such a request is somewhat unusual, is it not?"

"Yes," Thomas replied, his eyes flickering between Robert and Carson again. "But not entirely out of the ordinary. Sir."

"No," Carson said with a nod. "What _is_ unusual is that you volunteered to attend him, if I recall correctly."

Thomas frowned. "Was that wrong of me, sir?"

"Of course not," Robert said, with a glance at Carson, who lifted his chin. Robert subsided.

"Do you recall what the gentlemen had need of?" Carson asked.

Thomas frowned and glanced to the side. "I…believe that the lamp in his bedroom had gone out. He wished to continue reading. I installed a new bulb and took the old one away."

"Was this noted in the stores?" Carson asked.

Thomas's face became extremely composed and then he frowned and looked down at the floor. "No, Mr Carson, it was not."

There was a heavy silence in the room for a long moment and then Carson said, "And why was that?"

"I forgot," Thomas replied, self-recrimination and apology thick in his tone. "It was late, I was probably eager to sleep." Thomas straightened and looked between them. "I'm sorry for this lapse, sir. Your Lordship. I will not allow it to happen again."

Robert nodded, torn between wanting to believe the best of his footman and his own awareness that with this story, the evidence against Thomas was and would likely always remain merely circumstantial. The story was entirely believable. After all, Thomas had probably been awake for at least sixteen hours by that point. If Robert himself were dead on his feet, even he would have been reluctant to travel the length of the house to wherever the stores logbook was kept just to note the loss of a single light bulb. He would have told himself that he could do it the next morning…and then it would have been natural to forget his intention in all the bustle of a new day.

"And do you recall, at any point during that day," Carson asked, "whether Mr Pamuk might have been left unattended for a significant length of time? Particularly while the ladies were in the Family Wing?"

Thomas tilted his head to the side and frowned. "No, of course not. The gentlemen are not permitted to move freely about the house at any point while they are in residence." Thomas looked at Robert with a thoughtful frown. "And I do not recall that either Mr Pamuk or Mr Napier retired early that evening."

Robert nodded. "They did not."

"Although Mr Crawley left early, with Mrs Crawley," Thomas mused.

Carson gave an approving nod and shared a glance with Robert.

"Thank you, Thomas," Carson said. "That will be all."

Thomas glanced between them, giving them a tight smile and finishing with a slight bow in Robert's direction.

"Mr Carson. Your Lordship."

And he left the small office, pulling the door closed behind him.

Robert heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, I'm glad that business is done with."

"Except that we still don't know how Mr Pamuk found Mary's bedroom."

"Perhaps he was very lucky?" Robert ventured, but Carson did not look convinced. "Perhaps Mary looked out at an inopportune moment, or Mr Pamuk realized that Anna was attending Lady Mary and took note of _her_ activities."

"Perhaps," the butler agreed. "But in any of these scenarios, Mr Pamuk would need to deliberately enter a part of the house where he knew he was not welcome."

Robert scowled. "We now know his intentions were less than honourable. Someone with pernicious intent might, with enough attention to detail, be able to circumvent even the most careful security measures."

"With less than a day of observation?" Carson asked sharply.

Robert had no answer for this.

Carson's eyebrows were drawn so tightly together that Robert looked away again, uncomfortable.

"I have been remiss in my duties," Carson said.

"No," Robert said. "This was not your fault."

"Then whose fault was it?" the butler asked quietly.

Robert couldn't stop himself pacing now, although he only made it two steps before he turned around to face Carson again. Robert felt the sudden urge to cry and he sternly repressed it. Where had that come from? What a useless thing emotions were, clouding your mind when you most needed it to be clear.

Robert turned abruptly away again, staring sightlessly at the wall.

"It was not yours, my lord," Carson said. "I had not meant to imply that at all."

"No, of course not, I know that," Robert said. "Still, at the end of the day, my family's welfare is my responsibility." _And I failed in the most dreadful way possible._

Robert closed his eyes. _Thank God for Matthew._ If not for him, none of this might ever have come to light, and the fact that he stood so fiercely by Mary in all of this filled Robert with a swell of gratitude and appreciation. He was not sure how many other men would have remained with a stained woman, particularly men from titled families: the very ones that he and Cora had been pushing Mary towards before Matthew arrived.

For the first time in his life, Robert was grateful for never having had a son. For if he had, Matthew would never have entered their lives, and where would that have left Mary? Robert didn't want to contemplate it. Banished to America, most likely. His precious, sparkling beauty of a daughter, thrown away by Society because of the actions of a–

"What is there left to pursue, my lord?" Carson asked, bringing Robert back to the present.

Robert turned slowly with a frown. "There is really nothing that I can think of," he said.

"I will review the management of the guests with a fine-toothed comb and ensure that the staff are all well-informed of the proper procedures," Carson said, but there was a measure of defeat in his voice.

"You must have faith in a process that has been refined for centuries, Carson," Robert said. "Even the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry."

Carson nodded, but still look unconvinced.

Robert sighed heavily. "Speaking of the staff, there is one other thing I must discuss with you. I want you to address them, and quickly."

"My lord?"

"Mr Pamuk died under suspicious circumstances, and at a most inopportune time in the Albanian negotiations." Robert paced two steps again and stopped. "There is reason to believe that the Turks are dissatisfied with the explanation of Mr Pamuk's death, and that they have turned their attention to me."

Carson looked thunderstruck. "Surely not, my lord! You had nothing to do with the gentleman's death!"

"I did not. But they do not know that and they are making an attempt to find out more about the circumstances surrounding their diplomat's death."

Carson was frowning deeply. "I have heard nothing of this before now," he said.

"No; you would not have," Robert said. "I learned of it only this morning."

"From Mr Crawley?" Carson asked, his voice quiet.

"Yes. He heard of these rumours and made discreet inquires while in London."

"I'm sorry to have ever thought ill of him, my lord," Carson said. "I was prepared to dislike him on Lady Mary's behalf."

Robert smiled, but only briefly. "We all were, I think, Carson."

"Why has this crisis arisen now, so long after the gentleman's death?" Carson asked.

"This is the most concerning aspect," Robert said. "Apparently, the Turks are in possession of some disturbingly accurate information. They know, for example, that he actually died in Lady Mary's room."

Carson pressed the back of his hand briefly to his mouth before dropping it back to his side. He met Robert's eyes, drawing in a deep breath before releasing it.

"And you think that a member of the staff might have communicated this to them somehow," Carson said, his voice deadly quiet.

Robert nodded.

"Even if Thomas were involved somehow, I doubt that he would have been the one to transmit this information," Carson mused.

"I agree," Robert said. "Doing so would implicate him."

Carson nodded, his expression dark and thoughtful.

"What do you wish me to say to the staff?" he asked.

"Everyone should be on the lookout for any odd persons, of course."

"Of course," Carson nodded.

"Do not mention Lady Mary's involvement, but you may make them aware of the potential threat to me. Make it clear that the threat is entirely theoretical at this point, but they must be made to understand the gravity of the situation."

Carson's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

"Please also impress upon them the importance of their role in the household. No task, no matter how small, is truly insignificant. My family is entirely dependent upon you all for our daily safety and protection, not to mention our daily needs." Robert paused. "And no detail should be overlooked. If anyone has information that might be relevant to this situation–_anyone_–request that they come forward with it, and promise them immunity in return for sharing what they know."

Carson's brows drew together. "Immunity, my lord? That seems rather…generous."

Robert sighed heavily. "People will not feel safe enough to come forward otherwise, and getting to the bottom of this is more important than anything else. We cannot be throwing up a cloud of uncertainty with anonymous submissions."

"I agree."

"If someone implicates themselves by their own admission, we will take their gesture in good faith, although they will be put on notice and their behaviour must be without flaw until such time as we are satisfied with their performance again. I will give them the benefit of the doubt: there may have been extenuating circumstances involved."

Robert and Carson exchanged another meaningful glance, and then Carson gave a brief nod.

"Very good, my lord."

"Well," Robert said, straightening. "Thank you, Carson. This discussion was invaluable."

"I'm only sorry that it could not have been more fruitful, my lord."

"It may yet be," Robert said. "Ever vigilant, Carson. Ever vigilant."

"Always. To the utmost."

"Good man," Robert said, crossing to the door. "I will see you this evening."

They exchanged a nod and then Robert stepped out, glancing down at his stockinged feet with some chagrin. He looked up to see Bates standing in the hallway, holding out a pair of gleaming shoes. Robert grinned as Bates set them down, and then Robert quickly stepped into them, allowing Bates to tie their laces.

"Thank you, Bates."

"You're welcome, Your Lordship," the valet replied, pushing himself to his feet again. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"Not for a couple of hours, at least," Robert replied. "If Lady Grantham asks, I'll be in the library."

"Very good, my lord."

With a brief nod, Robert went quickly to the stairs and ascended them. He emerged into the great hall with a sigh of relief, feeling back in place again. It was almost as if he were leaving the whole dreadful business in another world, but of course he wasn't. He sighed and strode across the great hall towards the library, thinking about the letters he had to write.

* * *

Matthew entered Crawley House feeling stiff and sore but, paradoxically, also immensely relaxed and energised. His body was slick with sweat and his clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin, but he smiled to himself nonetheless.

"Did you and Mary have a good ride?" his mother asked with a grin, from the top of the stairs. He returned her grin as she descended.

"It was brilliant," he said with enthusiasm, pulling off his riding hat and running a hand through his hair. His scalp itched. Where was Molesley? Matthew was desperate for a good soak. "Although I'm still a bit sore from Thursday's ride. It's been too long."

She chuckled. "I was rather surprised when you told Mary that you rode."

He put on an expression of mock offence. "I'm perfectly _capable_ of it, Mother."

"Oh, certainly," she said. "But you made it sound as though you normally nipped off for a jaunt through the countryside on _week ends_." She emphasised the two separate words and Matthew laughed. "When was the last time you rode?" she asked, reaching the bottom step.

"Radley?" he said, frowning as he tried to recall. "I didn't have much time for leisurely pursuits at Oxford."

"No, you spent your time far more profitably." His mother grinned up at him, crossing in front of him and going into the sitting room. He followed her inside and watched her open a desk drawer and rummage through it.

"I rather lost my taste for it when Father passed away," Matthew said quietly. "It reminded me too much of him."

"Mmm." His mother glanced back at him. "That makes sense, I suppose." She brightened. "Well, I'm glad you've found a new riding partner in Mary."

Matthew grinned. "She has an excellent seat. One of the best I've seen."

His mother smiled and turned back to rummaging in the drawer. She closed it and opened another one, her movements quick and annoyed.

"What are you looking for?" Matthew asked, after a moment of watching her.

"My reading glasses," she said with a frustrated huff, and straightened. "Have you seen them?"

Matthew quickly glanced about the room and his eye caught on an unexpected glint of sunlight on the mantelpiece. He moved around the sofa and crossed to the fireplace. As expected, the glasses sat atop it, in front of his father's portrait. He paused, holding the glasses in one hand, and looked at the picture.

"Do you ever miss him?" he asked.

His mother drew up beside him, and he felt her take the glasses from his hand.

"Every day," she murmured, looking up at him. After a long moment, she looked away, gesturing with the glasses. "Thank you."

He turned away from the portrait and watched her perch the glasses on her nose before gathering her skirts and sitting down at the desk. She began her usual process of pulling out writing paper and a pen. Matthew looked back at the portrait again, studying the familiar face in silence.

"You have been a great comfort to me, my dear," she said. She smiled, but he could see the depth of emotion in her eyes. She blinked a few times and looked down at her blank sheets of paper. "You've no idea how often you remind me of him. It helps, sometimes."

Matthew swallowed and nodded.

"Just now, for instance," she continued unexpectedly, and he glanced at her with a frown.

"What do you mean?" He couldn't recall doing anything that reminded him of his father.

"The way you took off your hat and immediately ruffled your hair when you came inside," she said, her eyes faraway, a small smile on her face. "Your father was never much of one for pomade." She chuckled. "Neither was I, for that matter."

Matthew frowned and smiled as he remembered. No; his father had kept his hair quite short. Matthew had asked him about it once, for it had bordered on unfashionable, and his father had said that he had no use for hair falling in his eyes while he was trying to do a surgery or perform some other delicate operation. With the occasional suddenness of movement required for medical work, no amount of pomade was entirely sufficient for keeping one's hair in place. So his father had kept it neatly trimmed and generally only used pomade for social outings.

Matthew always used some, of course, but today's events–and particularly the ride–did not require such a formal appearance. And besides, his hair had been contained under his hat the whole time, so who would know? He thumped the hat against his leg. Molesley had dug his riding breeches and field boots out of a trunk in the attic just two days earlier, on very short notice. They'd smelled a bit musty when he'd first pulled them on, but they still fit, although just barely. Likewise, his skills on a horse had been rusty at first, but it had all come back to him before long and he'd found himself chasing after a laughing Mary in no time at all.

He smiled at the memory of her habit and the ribbons on her hat flapping vigorously behind her as she urged Diamond on. She made a glorious picture and presented a most enticing quarry. He grinned and chuckled to himself.

Then he sobered, remembering another ride, one that he hadn't been on, and another hunter whose true nature had been hidden even from her, and he frowned. Robert wasn't taking the situation seriously enough and Matthew felt powerless in the face of it. It was Robert's household and his servants, after all; being the heir meant nothing, really, when it came down to it. Giving them this house to live in, inviting Matthew to learn how the Estate was run–it was all a mere courtesy, and Robert was a gracious host.

That was admirable, but grace was not the only attribute a head of household should display. He also needed a measure of shrewdness, to protect those in his charge. Robert hadn't known about Pamuk's assault on Mary and probably would have gone on indefinitely in that state if Matthew hadn't blundered into telling him. What else was Robert unaware of? Could the servants really be trusted?

Once again, Matthew was glad for the simpler life that he and his mother lived. Molesley was all right when it came to it, and Matthew was grateful for his help, even if he managed to be underfoot on occasion, but letting _that_ many people into the running of your household? It was an invitation for who-knew-what unpleasantness, surely. Trusting in the discretion of strangers, expecting that the mere act of paying someone would ensure that they kept your best interests at heart–it was ludicrous. Money ensured nothing. If anything, being continually exposed to such wealth but never permitted to enjoy it must breed jealousy and vindictiveness. Why couldn't Robert see that?

"If you must do that, Matthew, please do it somewhere else. You're driving me to distraction."

Matthew paused from where he stood behind the sofa and frowned across the room at his mother.

"Do what?"

"All that pacing," she replied, frowning down at her letter. "You know how it prevents me concentrating."

"I'm sorry," he muttered. He hadn't even been aware he'd been doing it.

His mother looked at him over her glasses, then twisted in her chair to face him.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He sighed and looked away, giving his leg a frustrated thump with the hat. His mother waited, although he knew her patience was limited. He frowned and walked back to the fireplace again.

"Robert doesn't seem interested in getting to the bottom of who started those awful rumours about Mary," Matthew said, moving to sit down on the sofa.

"Don't you dare," his mother said sharply, and he checked himself and shot her a look of chagrined annoyance. He stood by the fireplace again and reached over his shoulder to itch between his shoulder blades with a grimace. His vest prevented him getting a good purchase and he frowned. _Where was Molesley?_

When he realised that his mother hadn't said anything further, he gave her a look.

"Well? Don't you have some suggestion?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows. "I can't pretend to know how to advise you in this," she said. "Have you spoken to Cousin Violet?"

"I have."

"And she said...?"

He scowled. "Much the same thing he did."

"It's how they are," his mother replied with a shrug, turning back to her letter.

"Yes, but they _shouldn't_ be!" Matthew said, throwing up his hands in frustration. "And it's Mary who's paid for their inattention!"

"Is she upset about this?" his mother asked, turning back to him.

Matthew scowled at the fireplace.

"I see," his mother said, after observing him a moment. "Well, I don't see that there's anything to be done about it."

Matthew gave her a sceptical look. "You always have ideas for meddling; why not now?"

She suppressed a smile. "I do, do I?"

He smirked at her. "Don't pretend you don't."

"You've done all you can, Matthew. How they choose to manage their household is not our concern."

He nodded, but frowned and looked away. "I just hate not being able to protect her."

His mother chuckled. "Well, that will change soon enough. And just to warn you: you'll never be able to protect her as much as you wish to. Even if Mary were a compliant sort–" at this, they shared an amused look, "–there is still so much that is beyond your control."

"I know," he sighed. "But I don't have to like it."

"Like it or not, it's life."

Matthew stared at his father's portrait and wondered what advice he would give in this instance. _Encourage Mary to take more precautions when guests are about, if you must_, Matthew imagined. _But do not assume that you know all that they are about._

Matthew frowned. "Do you suppose Robert is hiding his true intentions from me?"

His mother looked up from her letter-writing again. "What do you mean?"

Matthew spoke slowly as he thought aloud. "Suppose I were in Robert's position," he said. "A man who has a demonstrated interest in my daughter–" his mind caught briefly on these words and then he continued, "–is making inquiries about the means by which I protect her."

"Ah," his mother said with a smile, and he looked down at her. "Yes."

Matthew looked at the floor with a sheepish expression and stubbed his boot against it. "Yes, I suppose..."

"He hasn't been the Earl of Grantham for this long without learning a thing or two," his mother said. "Not to mention a father of three daughters. He's probably in more of a state about this than you are."

Matthew looked up. "Do you really think so?"

His mother smiled and turned back to her writing. "Just wait until you have your own, my dear; then you'll understand."

Matthew chuckled, then frowned. Robert ought to know about the rides that he and Mary were going on, but the earl's comment about not knowing why Mary had come back early from London led Matthew to believe that Mary had not told her father about their outings. Matthew had watched her dismiss Lynch twice so far, and the look on Lynch's face was not a pleased one. It was clear that the man expected to accompany her when she rode, and Matthew's presence was not reason to change that expectation. If anything, it might be worrying Lynch further. If something happened to Mary while they were out, would it cost Lynch his job?

Matthew frowned uncomfortably. Never mind Lynch, was it even right for Matthew to be riding out alone with her at all? His intentions were pure–_were they, really?_ a little voice asked–he would never do anything untoward, surely–but the whole reason he'd invited her out after Sybil's ball was to enjoy more time alone with her, to escape her family's constant surveillance.

Matthew looked up at Molesley's sudden appearance in the doorway.

"Sir, I'm sorry, sir, I hadn't realised you'd come in!" Molesley said, straightening his jacket and brushing off the sleeve. The valet touched his hair, then quickly dropped his hand. "I was in the back garden, trimming the hedges. Beth called me in just now."

Matthew put up a hand. "That's quite all right, Molesley. I'm sure the hedges look much better for it."

Molesley smiled, taking in Matthew's appearance, and gave a curt nod. "I expect you'll be wanting to wash, sir?"

Matthew glanced down at himself with a chuckle. "Absolutely."

"If you'll just come upstairs, I'll have a bath ready for you in a jiffy."

Matthew nodded and started around the sofa as Molesley headed towards the stairs.

"Supper will be served at six-thirty," his mother called, not looking up from her writing.

"I'll be down before then," Matthew said.

"Good," his mother answered. "I didn't want to see you squirreled away in your study the whole evening."

"I've work to do, Mother," he said.

"I know," she smiled across at him. "But it's Saturday: surely you can take some time off."

He shook his head with a smile. "I took the morning off already, you know that. And you'll have me all to yourself tomorrow. It is the Lord's Day, after all."

"Whatever do you mean by that?" she asked, turning to face him as he strode out. "I don't need you all to myself."

"I thought we might take a walk together," he said, grinning. "While we still can."

"That would be lovely," she said with an answering grin. "But don't assume we won't do it on occasion after you're married, too."

He chuckled and shook his head as he headed up the stairs, and then he sobered. In all seriousness, he didn't know what would happen. He and Mary hadn't been able to agree on where they might live after they married, but it seemed definite that it wouldn't be at Crawley House. His opportunities to spend time with his mother would likely be curtailed.

He smiled. Of course, that would be because he had opportunities to spend time with his wife, instead. _Wife_. He liked the sound of that.

He heard the bath being drawn and grinned. He took the stairs two at a time, eager to peel off his sweaty clothing and have a good soak.

* * *

Thomas sat on the picnic bench in the back courtyard and slowly exhaled smoke through his nostrils. He watched it curl away and then bent to tap the cigarette on the edge of the bench before propping his arm up again.

"Fancy a smoke?" he said, when he saw O'Brien emerge from the doorway and walk out a few steps beyond him. She turned to him with a small smirk.

"Don't mind if I do," she said. He inclined his head towards the open pack resting beside him and she took a cigarette out. He let her light it from his own and then he watched her take a drag. She blew it out. "Well, that's a witch hunt where naught'll be drowned," she said.

"They all did look like a pack of wet rats, though, didn't they?" he smirked.

She chuckled. "Aye, they did at that."

They smoked in silence for a short while.

"'Rats' is right," O'Brien said with a sneer. "Daisy wasted no time in spilling her guts to Mrs Hughes. The old battle-axe had me on for not telling her about it right when it happened."

"When what happened?" Thomas asked with a frown. O'Brien eyed him a moment, a small smile growing on her face.

"Mr Pamuk died in Lady Mary's room." O'Brien seemed to find his expression even more amusing, for she smiled outright and then turned away with a shake of her head. She gestured with her cigarette. "The little whore did him in." She gave a nod. "How's about that?"

Thomas stared at O'Brien, trying to make sense of her words. "Are you saying Lady Mary _murdered_ Kemal Pamuk?"

"Shhh! The walls have ears! And no, I'm not saying nothing of the kind. It was a heart attack, they said. So unless she's the real witch around here, no, she didn't murder him."

"But you just said–"

O'Brien cut him off with a significant look and his mouth dropped open slightly. He closed it.

"No," he managed.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Is that even possible?" he said.

"Must be. It happened."

"How do you even _know_ this?" he asked, not able to stop himself from drawing slightly away from her.

She smirked at his movement and looked up. "Daisy." She took a draw on her cigarette.

"That little mouse? She's not seen the inside of a man's bedroom except to clean it," he smirked.

"Rat. And Daisy didn't tell me from her own experience, you idiot. She saw Lady Mary carrying his body round a corner."

"But how did she get him back into his bedroom? It's clear across the house."

O'Brien shrugged. "How should I know? All I know is Daisy saw it and the next thing we know, you found him cold as a stone in his bed."

Thomas suppressed a shiver and looked away. The man's dead-eyed stare was not one he wanted to recall. Mr Pamuk had seemed so strong and alive only hours earlier.

For half an instant, life felt fragile, and then Thomas pushed the thought away.

"And never you mind about the letter you wrote to Old Savident's valet; the rumours flying around London right now have far surpassed anything you might have been able to say."

"What's this?"

O'Brien smirked and tapped her cigarette before answering. "Everyone knows he died in her bedroom. And I think I know who told them."

"Really? Who?"

"Lady Edith."

Thomas frowned. "How do you know that?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "I'm not a lady's maid for nothing, you know."

He shrugged and looked away. He portrayed an attitude of disinterest, but he was discomfited. After he'd led Mr Pamuk to Lady Mary's room, he hadn't been able to stop himself eavesdropping briefly, and he'd heard Lady Mary's protests and Mr Pamuk's response. Once he'd realised they were well on their way and Lady Mary hadn't screamed, however, he'd left. Mr Pamuk hadn't forced her. If he'd tried, Thomas would have stepped in. It would have earned him favour with the family and any accusations Mr Pamuk might have tried to make at that point would have been easily dismissed, for he would have been found in her room and Lord Grantham would have thrown him out of the house without ceremony and without listening to a word he said.

But there was still a niggling, unsettled feeling around the edges of this. Lady Mary might be a spoiled brat, but she had also seemed unaware of what her actions could provoke. If it hadn't been for Thomas's foolish attempt to seduce Mr Pamuk, she might never had been put in such a situation. He frowned. Had her...activities...with Mr Pamuk truly brought on the man's heart attack? What a horror of a thought.

Thomas smirked. He didn't envy Matthew Crawley _that_ prospect. He wondered if the prig had any idea what was in store for him.

"...and I've had inquiries from half a dozen ladies' maids," O'Brien was saying, her expression as close as it ever got to happy. "I haven't written back to any of them yet, of course. It's best to hold on to what you have until you can make good use of it."

Thomas glanced at her with a smirk, then reached down to tap off more ash on the edge of the bench. She hadn't told him about what she knew until just now: what use was she getting from this conversation? An opportunity to show off, most likely, and to vent her frustrations to a friendly ear. But O'Brien was not his friend; they were temporary allies at best, as long as they could make use of each other. He could trust no one. She would make a mistake, someday, and she would see then if he was willing to listen to her bragging and carrying on. They were neither of them under any illusions.

"Miss O'Brien?" Mrs Hughes stepped out into the yard, a stern look on her face–when was it otherwise?–and caught sight of O'Brien. "There you are. Lady Grantham's rung for you."

"Of course she has," O'Brien muttered, dropping her cigarette to the cobblestones and crushing it underfoot.

"She'll not wait all day," Mrs Hughes snapped.

"I'm coming," O'Brien said, stalking towards the housekeeper. "You don't have to ask twice."

"Good," Mrs Hughes said, glancing at Thomas before following O'Brien inside. The door closed behind the two women.

Thomas dragged on his cigarette, then looked at it. It was nearly burned down. He would need to go back in soon as well. He blew out the lungful of smoke and watched it curl away on the slight breeze. Not that there was much occasion for wind to move this far into the courtyard. The high walls kept everything stagnant and still.

He smirked at his turn of thought and took another draw on the cigarette. Lord Grantham's little kingdom, trying to hold the world at bay.

Then Thomas frowned and leaned forward, bracing himself on the edge of the bench and letting the cigarette hang from slack fingers. What Mr Carson had said seemed ridiculous. It was utterly unlikely that the Turks would attempt to assassinate Lord Grantham, wasn't it? But their diplomat had died under suspicious circumstances, and in this house. Who knew what the Turks would do? They had a brutal reputation, didn't they? And why would they act now? Did they have some fresh reason to believe that Lord Grantham had been involved in Mr Pamuk's death? Had some new evidence surfaced? But what could it be? Had O'Brien been right, and it was Lady Edith's doing?

A stillness came over him for a moment. Now that he thought about it, he'd seen a letter addressed in Lady Edith's hand and intended for the Turkish Embassy when he'd taken out the post a few days after Pamuk's death. It was unusual, but at the time he'd assumed that it was merely a polite gesture of commiseration. Now he was not so sure. How could the Turks pose a material threat to Lord Grantham unless they had evidence of foul play? But then, why would Lady Edith expose the family in such an unbelievable fashion? It made no sense.

Of course, she might not have been intending to expose the family, but merely her older sister, and the whole plan was going off the rails. Thomas smiled sourly to himself. These women were children, playing with things they didn't understand.

His humour fell away quickly, however, as he contemplated the repercussions of her foolish action, and his own. He was not just an insignificant cog in a heartless machine. His actions, although they had seemed limited to a private matter between himself and Mr Pamuk, had led to his being used by the Turk to bring harm down on the family Thomas served.

He did not like this new insight into the essential vulnerability of the Crawley family. They might possess titles and vast wealth, but neither was of any use in this situation. Those things had, in fact, likely opened them up to such a threat. Due to their position and influence, the threat was at the level of an entire foreign country rather than merely a disgruntled neighbour or a spurned lover, and therefore all the more frightening. He had not considered the downsides of their elevated position before.

Although Thomas had no particular love for Lady Mary, Lord Grantham was a fair and relatively kind master, in that sense somewhat unusual amongst the men of his class. Thomas knew he was fortunate in his position serving the Crawley family, although he would never admit it aloud. Lord Grantham could not have murdered Mr Pamuk and Thomas would be saddened to see him pay for a crime that he did not commit, not to mention the upheaval that would result and the likely uncertainty about the future of Thomas's position at Downton if Lord Grantham were to die or be imprisoned.

Thomas swallowed, Carson's words about the family's security depending wholly upon their servants ringing in his ears. He did not wish to see the Crawleys as human; he much preferred to resent them from afar, even as he was jealous of their power and position and wished that he could walk among them as an equal. But human they were, and human they would remain. And Thomas's job was an important one; they relied on him. On all of their servants. If anything serious ever came of this threat, the menservants might be their only source of protection.

Thomas balked at the thought. Although he knew part of his role was to provide physical protection for the family and to guard against intruders and thieves and the like, it was a duty that he'd never been called upon to perform, had never expected would really be necessary, and for which he had precious little training. He'd listed 'pugilism' as a hobby on his application, but that was laughable; if anything, his experience with it had been wholly on the receiving end.

He sneered and put out his cigarette.

After a moment of staring at the overcast sky, he gathered up the unfinished pack of cigarettes and went back inside, his thoughts still churning.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

This week my thanks go to my excellent betas, **Lala Kate**, **Apollo888**, and my friends **Jean** and **Jamie**. I also want to give a shout-out to several readers whose thoughtful comments prompted the very existence of this chapter! Without **AngelQueen**, **golden12**, **New Hogfan**, **Audrey C**, and **judyl1**, I wouldn't have followed all the way through to see what would happen to Thomas, and I'm so glad they asked about him, because writing this was a fascinating journey. Also, a belated (sorry!) thanks to **OrangeShipper** for answering my questions about British linguistic style, culture, and geography. Finally, my profuse gratitude to God, for laying out the scenes in front of me and tasking me merely with transcribing them. A vast amount of what was said and done in these scenes was a surprise to me as I wrote them and what a joy it is to experience that. :)


	8. Chapter 8

_8_

Robert stood on the hillside, his hands in his jacket pockets, as Pharaoh romped nearby, dashing this way and that along the edge of the lake. He wasn't watching the dog, however: his gaze was fixed across the inlet, at the two figures on horseback. He admired the woman's expert seat and smiled. Matthew's seat wasn't anything to sneer at, but it was clear that Mary was the superior rider. Robert frowned. All those riding lessons had been put to good effect, but of what use were her skills in this day and age? Especially now…

Robert sighed, then laughed to himself as he watched Mary evade Matthew's pursuit again. She looked so happy. So did Matthew, for that matter. Robert was torn; delighted on the one hand, heavy-hearted on the other. Nothing might come of this, he reminded himself. Or everything might change. The one thing he'd thought he so desperately wanted he now felt ambivalent about–and then he felt guilty at the thought of not welcoming a new son or a daughter with open arms. Of course he would be a proud Papa, but to start all over again? Now? He'd thought those days long past, his quiver already full. He loved his daughters so very much. He was proud of the women they had all become. Even his baby, Sybil, was a grown woman now, out in Society. Her first Season had been a great success. She was such a beautiful young woman, so full of life and spirit. She was always pushing at the boundaries, certainly, but what young person wasn't? It was the job of the next generation to pull against the traces of their parents. The pattern was as old as the world itself. Soon she would be a wife, a mother…

Robert swallowed and watched the figures on horseback. They'd slowed and, he realised, turned to face him. Matthew waved; Robert put on a wide smile and briefly pulled his hand out of his pocket to wave back. He watched them confer and then they began trotting their horses back around the inlet, heading in his direction. He had to tell them. His stomach twisted with dread and he hated that this feeling was associated with such happy news, but it wouldn't necessarily be happy to them. Robert's heart gave a painful squeeze. He liked Matthew so much. The boy had made the transition into his new life with surprising grace and Robert couldn't imagine a better husband for his daughter. Mary was high-spirited, with a quick mind. Most men would probably be intimidated by her–most had been, Robert considered wryly–and the rest wouldn't appreciate her properly. She was an extraordinary woman: if she'd been born a male, Downton would have been in excellent hands. As a woman, though, and particularly a noblewoman, her talents had no real outlet. Robert could see his daughter's frustration but had been powerless to redress it. Matthew had been the answer to more than one of the family's unfortunate circumstances, not the least of which was what to do with Mary. Her engagement to Matthew was more than just a relief for the family, however. Cora was right: Robert could see that they got on well. They had as good a chance of a happy life together as anyone. Matthew would value Mary and care for her, and they would likely make splendid parents. A father could not hope for more.

But Robert frowned as they neared. Despite their fondness for each other, how would they weather the situation if everything changed? Robert did not think Mary so shallow that she would reject Matthew if his prospects were now different, but the arrangement would be out of the ordinary. Robert knew that Matthew would be able to provide her with a comfortable life, but it would be a vastly different one from what she was accustomed to, and it might always be. That kind of disparity could breed discontent, even with the best of intentions from both parties.

Pharaoh barked a greeting and ran in excited circles around the horses as they approached. Robert put on a smile as the two riders pulled up.

"Hello, Papa," Mary said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. The sight of her happiness stabbed at him, but he kept smiling. "What brings you out to the lake on this lovely morning?"

"I was looking for you. Why did you dismiss Lynch?"

"We don't require a chaperone."

"Of course you do," he replied, dropping his smile and glancing at Matthew. "Lynch tells me that you two have been making a frequent habit of disappearing off together." Matthew looked suitably contrite. Mary, however, merely pulled off her riding gloves and looked bored.

"Really, Papa? You've come all the way out here to slap our wrists for an entirely innocent excursion? You were complaining only last week that Lynch wasn't taking Goliath out for exercise frequently enough because he favours Salford." Mary ignored the hand that Robert held out to her as she dismounted. She landed smoothly and straightened her habit, taking Diamond's reins. Diamond snuffled and nudged Mary's shoulder and she smiled up at him and gave him a fond pat. Matthew had dismounted from Goliath and he stepped around the horse, gathering the reins as he joined Mary and Robert. The three set off in the direction of the stables. Pharaoh ran off to nose around in a nearby shrubbery.

Robert glanced at the horses. It was plain to see that they had been thoroughly put through their paces, bearing up what Mary had said. Despite having no tangible evidence of anything untoward and despite his fondness for Matthew, Robert was no fool. He looked past Mary and caught Matthew's eye. The two men exchanged a look and then Matthew nodded.

Mary cleared her throat primly. "When you two have done with that, you might want to consider involving me in the decision. I quite like having a partner to ride with who can keep up with me."

"Lynch has a fine seat," Robert said.

"Lynch has work to do," Mary retorted.

"So does Matthew." Robert smiled.

Matthew laughed. Mary shot him a look, but he just raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "He's right."

"Won't your employers notice your absence?" Robert asked.

"I've made arrangements to shift my schedule back a few hours a couple more times a week," Matthew replied. "Also, I bring work home and finish it in the evenings."

"Ah…which is why you've been round for dinner less than Cora and I were expecting, given–" Robert tilted his head in their direction.

Matthew nodded. "I hope I haven't given offence."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary said.

"Of course not," Robert said at nearly the same time. "We just thought you'd want to spend more time with Mary than you had before." He smiled. "Which you have been, it would seem."

"I'm sorry," Matthew said. "I should have asked your permission."

"Did you hear what I just said about not being ridiculous?" Mary said. "I am an adult. I don't require Papa's permission to go out riding, and neither do you."

The two men exchanged another glance. He would take this up with her later, when Matthew was not present. Robert believed that he and Matthew understood each other well enough for now.

"I came to find you because I have…news," Robert said, trying to sound cheerful.

"Oh dear," Mary said.

Matthew frowned at her. "What's wrong?"

She looked askance at Robert. "I'm not going to like it, am I?"

He sighed and watched Pharaoh loping around happily several yards in front of them. "It's a mixed thing," he replied, deciding to just say it. "Your mother is expecting."

A two-part chorus of "What?" met his ears.

Mary and Matthew came to a stop and Robert paused as well. Pharaoh trotted up and snuffed against his hand; Robert petted his head and avoided their eyes for a moment.

"Mama's…what?" Mary repeated. "How–?" she cut herself off. "Don't answer that."

Robert shook his head and looked off into the distance past the horses. "It took us quite by surprise," he murmured.

"When is the baby to arrive?" Matthew asked, his voice quiet.

Robert's eyes shot to him, shocked at the baldness of the question, but Matthew's expression was unreadable. Was there anger in his eyes? Robert wasn't sure and he looked away, uncomfortable. Matthew had every right to ask, given the potential implications of this situation for him. Robert had no intention, no matter the outcome, of ousting him and Isobel from Crawley House, but they might wish to leave if Matthew's position were to change. There would be no need for them to remain at Downton. They'd had a life and friends in Manchester and Matthew might want to begin making arrangements in the event of their return. Robert felt a pang in his chest at the thought.

Mary started walking, tugging Diamond's reins, and the two men quickly fell back into step on either side of her.

"Dr Clarkson expects it will be some time in December," Robert answered.

"Congratulations," Matthew said.

Mary continued to tug Diamond, walking slightly ahead of them.

"Thank you," Robert answered.

"Mary," Matthew said.

"Yes, Matthew?" The sweetness in her tone sounded false.

"You're being rude."

Mary huffed. "Felicitations, Papa," she said.

"It's all right," Robert said to Matthew, when he saw the younger man's annoyed expression. "It's quite a lot to take in."

Mary stopped, drawing Diamond up beside her. "'Quite a lot to take in'?"

"They couldn't have _chosen_ this, Mary," Matthew said, stopping and putting out a hand. She ignored him.

"I suppose you're ecstatic, then, to have another chance at an heir?" she asked Robert, her words even more bald than Matthew's had been.

Robert frowned down at her. "It's complicated," he answered.

"It's not complicated," she snapped back. "You uprooted Matthew and now you're threatening to toss him out like so much rubbish."

"Mary," Matthew said. "You don't need to defend me–"

"Why not?" she turned on him. "You're not defending yourself."

"There's nothing to defend against," he said, still holding out a hand but not touching her. He was frowning. "They haven't done anything wrong."

"They could have at least waited until Mama passed her childbearing years," Mary said. "They could have made sure that you weren't just going to be jerked about before dragging you into all of this."

Robert held out his hands. "It's been eighteen _years_, Mary. That's exactly what we thought we were doing."

Mary looked away from him, angry but schooling her expression into one of cool distance.

"Dr Clarkson said that sometimes, at the end, a woman–" Robert cut himself off and squinted into the middle distance. The three of them stood in awkward silence for a long moment, and then:

"I _told_ you that really smart people sleep in separate rooms," Mary muttered, starting forward again. Robert laughed; Matthew looked shocked. When she noticed that Matthew hadn't joined her, she paused and turned around. She rolled her eyes at his expression. "Don't look so disappointed," she said.

"But I _am_–"

Mary huffed. "_Seriously_, Matthew. I was teasing."

Matthew seemed to be trying to read her expression, with no success. For someone who was teasing, she certainly didn't appear to be smiling. Robert laughed again at the half-panicked look on Matthew's face and shook his head. This was for Mary to sort out.

"Will you be joining us for lunch?" he asked, as they started forward again.

Matthew shook his head. "No. I need to wash up. I want to take the noon to Ripon."

They walked in silence for a short while. When the stables came into view, Robert said, "I can take Goliath in, if you wish."

Matthew nodded and held Goliath still as Mary continued on ahead. Robert stepped up and took the reins from Matthew, then pulled Goliath forward, walking slowly.

"I want to say I'll make provision for you if it's a boy and you get pushed out," Robert said as Matthew fell into step beside him.

"Don't worry," Matthew said. "I know you can't. If any man living understands the strength of the entail, it's me."

"I can give you Crawley House for life, if it's a help."

Matthew nodded and looked at Mary ahead of them.

"By the way, I want to ask a favour," Robert said. "What's the name of your cook? The one you brought with you from Manchester?"

Matthew frowned. "Mrs Bird?"

Robert nodded. "Mrs Patmore will be taking some time away and we need someone who can step in for a few weeks. Do you think Mrs Bird might be willing? I'll compensate her, of course."

"I can certainly ask her."

"Thank you."

They continued walking and then Robert cleared his throat and drew Goliath up. Matthew stopped beside him with a questioning frown.

"I expect to be informed of future outings," Robert said.

"Of course," Matthew replied, lifting his chin, his face clearing. "Please forgive me."

Robert tugged at Goliath and they started walking again. "It's not necessary."

"I hope you know I would never do anything with her that I would be unwilling to do in your presence," Matthew said. "We really do just ride."

"I trust you both, you know that, but there's no harm in fleeing temptation. You'll be married soon enough; there's no need to rush things."

Matthew frowned, watching Mary as she led Diamond into the stables. "Yes. You're right; I'm sorry, sir."

"Enough of that," Robert said. "Go. Go." He waved his hand in a shooing motion and Matthew nodded and began to jog away.

"You have a good seat!" Robert called after him.

Matthew twisted and smiled back at him, still at a jog. "Thank you!"

Robert looked between the young man's receding form and the darkness of the stable doors where Mary had disappeared a few moments before. He glanced up at Goliath and gave the horse's neck a soft pat. "They grow up so quickly, old chap," he said, then sighed. He and Cora were starting over again. A child of either sex would be welcome, of course, but the prospect of a son! Robert didn't know what he wished for more: a proper heir, or a situation largely unchanged. Matthew he knew and had confidence in. This child was an unknown entity and the future of Downton was at stake. Ah well, Robert mused, tugging Goliath beside him as he stepped into the warm, earthy shade of the stable and handed the reins to the young groom who just then rushed up. If it were a son, Robert would train the boy as his own father had trained him, and that would be that. Either way, the Grantham estate would continue and Robert would do his best to ensure its solid future. Pharaoh nudged Robert's leg with his nose and Robert smiled down at the dog and patted his head.

"Come, boy, let's go wash up before lunch," he said, and the hound trotted after him as Robert made his way back to the house.

* * *

"Mr Crawley!" Carson said, crossing the great hall. "Is Lord Grantham expecting you?"

Matthew removed his hat. "Good evening, Carson. No. I was actually hoping to speak with Lady Mary."

"Lady Mary?"

"Yes: she left a note for me. I'm sorry to drop in on you at such an hour. I had to work late; I only just got in."

"Say no more, sir," Carson gestured towards the sitting room. "You haven't caused offence. The family is just this way."

Matthew followed him across the great hall. Carson pushed open the door to the sitting room.

"Mr Crawley, Your Lordship," he announced. Robert, who was standing beside the fireplace, twisted in surprise.

Cora's face lit up. "Matthew! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here so late?" Her face suddenly creased. "Your mother is well, I hope?"

"Oh yes, she's fine," Matthew said quickly, relieved that Cora seemed in good health as well. His eyes found Mary's, surprised that she hadn't told anyone to expect his arrival. Why had she summoned him? She did not seem upset, but she wasn't smiling, either. "I was hoping I might speak with Mary, actually."

All eyes turned to her as she rose with perfect composure. She glanced at her father. "Papa?"

Robert frowned between them. "Carson, please show Lady Mary and Mr Crawley to the small library."

"Of course, my lord." Carson led the way and Matthew waited for Mary to precede him out of the room before giving the rest of the family a tight smile in response to their puzzled, concerned looks. He hurried to catch up with her.

"You haven't had your dinner yet, have you?" she asked as they crossed the great hall. William appeared and Carson motioned him over.

"No. I just got in and came straight here," Matthew said.

Mary turned. "Carson, would you ask Mrs Patmore to send something up?"

"Right away, my lady." Carson nodded to William, who promptly strode off.

"Oh, that won't be necessary–" Matthew started.

"Nonsense," Mary said. "You must be hungry. It's well past dinner-time."

Matthew sighed as she and Carson paused to confer. He had a great deal of work to do before bed this evening and Mrs Bird already had a plate warming in the oven for him. He'd hoped that whatever this was about could be handled quickly.

"The dining room, then, and please inform Lord Grantham of the change in plans."

"Of course, my lady," the butler said, and led the way towards the dining room. They crossed the short distance together and Carson held the door open for them to enter.

"Thank you, Carson," Mary smiled at him and he inclined his head and left.

Matthew took a few steps into the room and turned. "You really don't have to, you know."

"I know," Mary smiled. "But I can hardly be blamed for wanting the excuse to keep you nearby a little longer, can I?"

Matthew chuckled, then grew serious. "What's this about? Your note seemed urgent."

She frowned. "It did? I specifically said to come at your convenience. I hardly expected nine o'clock in the evening to be convenient for you."

"You said you wanted to speak with me and after today's news, your note was compelling. You've never left me a note before."

"Oh, Matthew," she said. "I'm sorry. I hadn't meant to make you nervous."

"I'm not nervous," he answered immediately.

She smiled. "You're not relaxed, either."

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, then gave her a small smile. "What's this about, Mary? I've had a long day."

"Work was tiring?" She took in his appearance, and he looked down at his shoes and winced. He'd forgotten about them. Carson had likely noticed the state they were in and it was to the butler's credit that he hadn't drawn Matthew's attention to them. There was probably a trail on the carpet; it would mean extra work for one of the maids tomorrow.

"I'm sorry about the mud. I was caught out in the downpour this afternoon and nearly turned my ankle in a farmyard." He pulled at a leg of his trousers and sighed. Mud was spattered on the bottoms as well. "I should have changed before I came." He frowned. "No wonder Molesley called after me."

Mary had reached him by this point and she put her palms on his chest and angled her head to press her lips to his. He froze, then straightened slowly and raised his hands to hold her waist, returning the kiss, his weariness forgotten. She pulled away before he wanted the kiss to end, and he kept his eyes closed and rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then drew back.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"That was what I wanted to say," Mary answered, her eyes alight. He smiled and moved to kiss her again, but she pressed on his chest to stop him. "William will be back soon," she said. He nodded and swallowed.

"So that was it?" he asked, his smile returning. "You missed me?"

"Well," she drawled, stepping away from him. "We didn't get to finish our ride."

He laughed. "Oh, we finished the _ride_."

She smiled, then sobered. "And I wanted to make sure that you know nothing has changed for me."

He stepped up to her and touched her face. "I didn't think it had."

"But I didn't want you to worry."

"Thank you for that," he said, smirking. "I'm not too proud to admit to being a bit distracted by it this afternoon."

"Was that why you nearly turned your ankle?"

"It might have been," he conceded. He so wanted to kiss her again, but at that moment William knocked and appeared carrying a tray and a decanter, so Matthew contented himself with admiring Mary's graceful form as she moved around the table and took a seat. He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down, careful not to brush her or the legs of the furniture with his muddy clothing. They nodded their thanks to William as he set down two wine glasses. Matthew smiled to himself at the sight.

"Will that be all, my lady?" the footman asked.

"Yes, thank you, William," Mary replied. "Please tell Lord Grantham that we'll only be a short while."

"Very good, my lady." William inclined his head and then left the room.

Matthew poured them both a glass of wine, smiling as he did so. "I see I will not be given the opportunity to offend your sensibilities again."

Mary smirked. "Oh, it's not _my_ sensibilities that were offended. Carson specifically asked if we wanted _two_ wine glasses."

Matthew laughed and lifted the cover off the tray to reveal a steaming bowl of soup and a small basket of rolls. He smiled a silent thanks to Mrs Patmore: warm soup was just the thing. Then he frowned, thinking that the state of his trousers might have influenced the menu. He hoped they didn't think he was in too miserable a state. He pulled the bowl nearer, closed his eyes for a brief moment of gratitude, and then began to eat, realising just how hungry he was and how glad he was that Mary had overruled him. He looked up at her after finishing a mouthful or two of the delicious soup.

"What made you leave me a note at all?" he asked. "Surely this could have waited until dinner on Thursday."

Mary looked away and played with her necklace. "Aunt Rosamund sent me a telegram this morning." She released her necklace to hold the stem of her wine glass with both hands. "She doesn't approve of you, you know. Oh, she likes you well enough, but she thinks I could do better. She suggested a long engagement: after all, you might only ever be a _country solicitor!_" Mary smiled. "I could practically hear her saying the words as if the very profession were a blemish on society."

Matthew laughed and shook his head, taking another spoonful of soup. Mary picked up a roll and began to butter it. "Although," she continued, "if _this_ is what I have to look forward to, she might have a point. The state of your trousers!"

As his mouth was full at that point, he gave her a look and rubbed his muddy shoe against her foot. She pressed her foot back against his immediately and raised an eyebrow, tearing a piece off her roll. If he hadn't known what they were doing under the table, he wouldn't have suspected anything amiss from her manner above it.

"I said I was sorry about the mud," he replied, smiling and watching her closely as he continued to eat. He enjoyed searching for signs of what she was thinking, hoping to learn more about how his prospective bride revealed herself when she was trying to hide her true feelings.

Mary merely smiled mysteriously to herself and popped the bit of bread into her mouth.

"What?" he asked. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. He noted that her foot was still touching his own.

"I don't mind the mud," she replied. At his look of disbelief, she shrugged. "I find the prospect of what will be required to deal with it quite…appealing."

He narrowed his eyes, finding it difficult to believe that Mary would embrace the idea of scrubbing the carpet, not to mention his clothing…and then his mouth dropped open. Surely she could not be saying what he thought she was saying. He stared at her, watching her appear nonchalant while not meeting his eyes–but then he saw a most becoming blush rising on her neck–and a slow smile crept across his face.

There was a soft knock on the door and the moment was broken. Their feet flew apart and they both turned to look as Cora peeked in. "Is everything quite all right in here?" she asked, smiling at them both.

"Yes, Mama," Mary said with a polite smile. "Matthew was just finishing up. Weren't you, Matthew?"

His bowl of soup was only half-finished, a fact that was quite obvious to Cora, he was sure, but he nodded and laid his napkin on the table. The family would not permit him and Mary more time alone together this evening, and he was chagrined to acknowledge that there was more than a little wisdom in that. October seemed an age away; he would have liked nothing better than to bring her home with him tonight. As it was, he did not think that he would find undressing to be nearly as tedious an experience as he'd expected. He stood and Mary rose beside him.

"The soup was delicious. Please thank Mrs Patmore," he said, regaining his composure as he followed Mary out of the dining room.

"I'll be sure to do that," Cora said, her eyes twinkling. They crossed to the entryway, where William was waiting with Matthew's hat. "Will you and Cousin Isobel be joining us for Thursday dinner, as usual?"

"Yes, I expect so," he replied, taking his hat with a smile of thanks to William, who smiled back.

"Thank you again for supper," he said, looking at Mary.

"Good night." She gave him a small smile.

"Good night," he said, matching her expression. He touched his hat and nodded to Cora, who was still smiling widely at him.

He stepped out into the warm night air, a spring in his step and a smile on his face, looking forward to the rest of his evening.

* * *

"I'm so glad that the wedding is still on," Violet said. "Now he'll love her until the end of his days."

Cora laughed and relaxed back against the chaise lounge. "I do believe you're right." She sighed and then smiled. "Now we just have the wedding to plan! I know Mary insisted that we wait until Sybil's first Season was completed, but the prospect of starting now is daunting. I'm just so tired so much of the time: the hospital benefit is already taxing my endurance. And the thought of managing a houseful of guests in October!" She shook her head. "Can you imagine: the mother of the bride, pregnant? It's almost shameful!"

"Psh. It's nothing of the kind," Violet said. "This is a source of great joy. Another grandchild in my old age! Why, the prospect almost makes me feel twenty years younger. I well remember the excitement surrounding Mary's birth."

"And you might have a great-grandchild in a year's time as well!"

Violet pursed her lips. "Yes, that would be lovely too, of course."

Cora frowned. "How is that any different?"

"A great-grandchild? It makes me sound so _old_, as if I should have shuffled off this mortal coil by now."

Cora waved her off with a disbelieving laugh. "You can't be serious."

"When you're my age, you can be as serious as you like."

Cora just shook her head.

"Still, I admire you," Violet said. "You're handling this whole affair with such equanimity. I'm sure I wouldn't have been half so calm had I found myself in your position. I was quite finished after Rosamund was born." She eyed Cora for a moment. "I must say: you've made Robert a very happy man, and I'm not just referring to the possibility of an heir. It's not many men who still enjoy their marriage at this stage in their life. I salute you, my dear."

Cora raised her eyebrows. "You exaggerate, surely."

"No, I do not think I do. Speaking of marriage, don't worry yourself about Mary and Matthew. Mary is more than capable of making all the arrangements, with my help, of course."

"Mary? Arrange her own wedding? You must be joking!"

"I will oversee her efforts, but you must rest yourself and not worry about a thing."

Cora eyed her. "I think perhaps I shall be _more_ worried, not less, to leave all the planning to the two of you."

Violet sat back, giving her cane a twist and looking affronted, although a smile tugged at her lips. "You wound me! You forget that I oversaw the arrangements of three marriages. I am quite capable of handling a fourth."

"Three?" Cora asked, frowning. "Ours, Rosamund's, and who else's?"

"My own, of course."

Cora looked politely sceptical. "Didn't your mother object?"

Violet looked to the side for a moment. "She arranged the match, but she became…unwell…as the day approached. She passed only a few months after we were wed."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear it."

Violet nodded. After a brief silence, she said:

"I've written to your mother. She's very anxious, naturally. She suggested coming over."

"Oh God," Cora said, wincing.

"Yes, well, that's what I thought, so I put her off, told her to come for the wedding."

"And she'll want to stay until the baby is born," Cora sighed.

"Mm. I'm afraid there's nothing to be done about that." Violet turned as the door clicked open.

O'Brien entered, a bath sheet draped over one arm. She took in the Dowager Countess at a glance and looked at Lady Grantham. "I'll just go run your ladyship's bath."

"Thank you, O'Brien," Her Ladyship said.

"Ooh! Have you had any answers about the position?" The Dowager leaned forward. O'Brien's ears pricked up and her resentment simmered, but she kept up a steady stride as she moved past the two women.

"Quite a few," Lady Grantham answered, reaching for the stack of letters on the side-table.

"All this talk of marriage," the Dowager's tone turned disapproving as O'Brien went into the next room to run the bath. "There must be something in the air. I don't know what Simmons sees in him: he's just a grocer." The Dowager sniffed. "Apparently they've been exchanging letters for years and he just recently made an offer."

"How romantic!" Her Ladyship replied, sounding distracted. O'Brien frowned. _Simmons? The Dowager's lady's maid?_

"So what do they sound like?" the Dowager asked.

"There's one I think has real possibilities," Her Ladyship answered. "She learned to do hair in Paris, while she was working for the Ambassadress!"

"Oh!" The Dowager sounded intrigued. "Ooh, that sounds promising. She doesn't mention any romantic letter-writers, does she?"

Her Ladyship gave a soft laugh. "She does not."

"Very well. And the others?"

O'Brien draped the bath sheet over a stool and ran the taps, drowning out the conversation in the next room. She waited until the water was just as Her Ladyship preferred, her mind spinning all the while. Could it be that the adverts had been for the Dowager and not for Her Ladyship? O'Brien frowned, suddenly uncertain. O'Brien had not heard of any staffing changes at the Dower House; perhaps she should make some discreet inquiries. Thomas might have heard something. She left the bathtub to fill up and went to gather Her Ladyship's soap and bathrobe. O'Brien glanced around: everything looked to be in its place. She went out into the bedroom. The Dowager Countess was reading a letter and Lady Grantham was looking out the window. Her Ladyship seemed tired, O'Brien thought. To be carrying a babe at her age! She would require more frequent attendance. It had been years since O'Brien had had the care of an expectant mother; she needed to brush up on her knowledge of sleeping draughts and search out the best sources of advice for ensuring Her Ladyship's comfort at this delicate time.

"Your bath is ready, my lady," O'Brien said quietly.

Her Ladyship roused. "Oh, yes. Thank you, O'Brien."

"I'll just be off," the Dowager Countess said, handing the letter back to Lady Grantham.

"Of course," Her Ladyship replied, putting it back in its envelope and standing slowly. O'Brien moved to support her, but Lady Grantham waved her off with a tired smile. "Will you be joining us for dinner?"

"Of course! I must discuss the invitations and the flowers with Mary as soon as possible. There is no time to waste. And of course I must speak with Isobel; I suspect that Matthew does not own a morning coat." The Dowager made her way to the door.

"Likely not," Her Ladyship agreed. "But you never know: he may have stood up with a friend in Manchester."

The Dowager sniffed. "Anything is possible, but who knows what Manchester tailors would make of it? We may very well need to have a new one made."

"Clearly you must speak with Cousin Isobel," Her Ladyship replied with a smile.

"Just so," the Dowager said. "I shall see you at dinner."

"O'Brien will have me there in fine form," Her Ladyship said, giving O'Brien a fond smile. "Won't you, O'Brien?"

"Of course, my lady."

The Dowager nodded her approval and strode out.

"Let's get you into the bath, my lady."

"Oh," Her Ladyship sighed. "I am so looking forward to a good soak!"

"Then we shall have to see you get one," O'Brien replied, the picture of calm authority and competence. She would have Her Ladyship ready for dinner in fine form.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

Thanks, as always, go to **Lala Kate** and **Apollo888**, for their excellent critiques and suggestions. I also want to thank the friends and family who have shown their support for my writing fanfic, including one person who said she thought it was 'cool' that I do it. That was a first. :) I'm more accustomed to having to explain what fanfic is and then seeing confusion or disapproval in people's eyes. Really, every story ever written is fanfic...set in a universe invented by our Creator and using a structure that relies on the one Story we're all living in ourselves. So thank You, Lord. For life. :-D


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